The Wall that Fell
by Lossefalme
Summary: TTT:ROTK:postROTK::Legolas:OC:: For the fate of a world, he would risk his life. For the love of a mortal, he would risk the world. RESUMED AT LAST!
1. The Rider

**Chapter One  
The Rider  
  
  
**

Legolas sat cross-legged in the shade of the looming wall of the Keep at Helm's Deep, holding an arrow in his slim fingers and turning it around slowly in his hands. But his eyes were closed, his dark brows drawn down in concentration. He brushed his fingertips over the arrow's feathered end, using his Elven senses to judge the quality of the arrow. This one was perfectly weighted and balanced; it would fly straight under his direction. 

His light blue eyes opened at the sound of soft footsteps, but he gave no other sign of hearing the approaching person. His gaze remained straight ahead on the broken Deeping wall in front of him. The huge gap in the outside wall of the fortress loomed at him, and the memory of the battle that had raged three nights ago came back to him vividly. He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to block the flood of images; the wall exploding, men and Elves hurled hundreds of feet into the air and then sent crashing down to the Orcs below. He tried not to see the one Orc running toward the drain with the torch . . . but Aragorn's screaming voice still echoed in his ears: "Ndengina ho! Ndengina ho, Legolas!" Kill him! Kill him, Legolas! 

Legolas' aim had been good, his Elven eyes flawless through the night and the rain . . . his arrows hit their mark, and yet the wall had fallen, the Orcs had poured in, and hundreds had perished.

"Mani naa sina?" What's this? a feminine voice asked suddenly, breaking Legolas from his thoughts. He looked up sharply at the Elven words and saw a rather tall human woman standing next to him. He hid his surprise at hearing her speak Elvish so well and simply looked at her, waiting.

"Lle hiraethaya ale'lakileallie?" You would sorrow after your victory? she asked quietly, looking down at him.

Legolas stood at the question, slipping the arrow back into the quiver on his back and picking up his bow from where he'd laid it by his side. He turned to the woman, and his gaze bored into her soul. "Lakilea?" Victory? he scoffed. "N'lakilea! Cormamin nyeera ten'i ba!" Not victory! My heart grieves for the dead! "Do you know the meaning of the words you speak, edainme?" woman he growled, then turned away from her and made his way down to the inner throne room.

On the way there Legolas regretted being so harsh, but it was too late now, by the time he looked back she'd vanished. He shook his head, angry at himself for losing his temper with her. He should be able to control himself after almost three thousand years of practice, but then again, Elves learned over lifetimes.

Another pang of sadness stung him at the thought. Bodies of his Elven comrades still littered the grounds of the Keep and the outside wall. The war wasn't over yet. They had given up their immortal lives to help in the fight for Middle-Earth, and Legolas knew it was still likely he would give his in the end.

"Legolas!"

The Elf looked up at his name and saw Aragorn striding his direction, followed by the human woman Èowyn. Legolas slowed and then stopped as his friend approached and remembered how he'd almost lost Aragorn in the fight with Sarumon's Wild Riders. These were evil times indeed, when you had friends dying every day.

Aragorn saw the look on Legolas' face and put a hand on the Elf's shoulder. Èowyn hung back, sensing that the two men wanted to talk alone. "Mani naa ta, mellonamin?" What is it, my friend? the Ranger asked.

Legolas looked Aragorn in the face. "I'ram lante. Pilinea'amin pelekte telwa." The wall fell. My arrows struck too late. 

Aragorn shook his head. "N'uma, Legolas," No, Legolas, the dark-haired man said emphatically. "Lye coie. Lye sal'suula. Lye elee i'anoron!" We lived. We still breathe. We saw the dawn! 

Legolas dropped his eyes, his fist tightening around the grip of his bow. "Yes," he reluctantly agreed. "But so many dead. Such a price to pay for such a small victory. This war is far from over." His eyes rose once again to regard Aragorn, and then Èowyn, who quickly looked away when his eyes met hers. "Sarumon will only send more of his armies. I fear we will suffer many more such losses in the future."

Aragorn managed a half smile and clapped the Elf's shoulder. "As long as there are some of us left to fight, Legolas, we have a chance."

Legolas opened his mouth to reply but a shout interrupted him. Both he and Aragorn turned and then bowed as they saw King Theoden approach them, followed by a few of his weary men. The survivors of the Battle of Helm's Deep had been hard at work the last three days burying their dead and trying to rebuild the outside wall. It was all painfully slow work with so few laborers and so little time to plan. 

The dead Orcs had been burned in massive piles, the men and Elves buried half-ceremoniously in mass graves, some of which Legolas had helped dig. The sight of Halidir's body being laid in one had nearly broken him and later that day Legolas had gone and marked all the mass graves with stones. He'd carved an Elvish saying onto the one above Halidir's grave: Lissenen ar' maska'lalaith tenna' lye omentuva, translated as "Sweet water and light laughter till next we meet."

The whole place smelled of death, and the surrounding stone and bleakness of the land made Legolas increasingly restless. The survivors were still burying the dead and struggling to erect even a few stones in the gap that had nearly caused their extinction. Hurriedly constructed wooden scaffoldings allowed some lifting of the stones the others managed to hack out of the cliff's face with axes, but it all looked eventually hopeless to Legolas. Four days now he'd stood on the wall or surrounding hills with his bow and arrows, watching always for the arrival of another black swarm of Urak-hai, ready to run and warn the others.

He'd seen nothing yet, not even crebrain. He'd watched the people struggle from a distance as they began reconstructing the wall, thinking the whole time of his arrows striking the Orc with the torch, and failing to bring him down. At night, after hearing endless hours of Gimli's tales about the Dwarves' ability to build structures of stone, and then hearing everyone else assure the Dwarf that they wished some of his kind were there to help in rebuilding the wall, Legolas would go to bed and dream of evil and darkness. Something terrible was building in Isengard, something worse than the army they had just witnessed. He could feel it growing. It made him anxious. Anxious to make sure the One Ring was destroyed . . . 

Now King Theoden told them they had a rider in from Gondor who had news from Faramir about Frodo and Sam. Aragorn and Legolas rushed after the King to meet the rider in the inner throne room, Èowyn trailing after. Legolas felt his heart pounding in his chest as they made their way deep into the interior of the fortress. The Hobbits had made it to Gondor . . . a relief to know they were still alive. They hadn't strayed from their quest. They had made it so far, and past a city of men, he prayed they could finish the journey. 

King Theoden led the way into the throne room and Legolas followed. Several of the King's guards and horsemen occupied the tables to the side; some were standing around another person, whom Legolas took to be the rider. They were all talking loudly, but at the sight of the King a hush fell quickly over them all. The riders and guards parted to reveal a woman.

Legolas felt strangely embarrassed and looked away from the woman's face as her brown-eyed gaze swept over him. It was the woman he'd spoken to up on the Keep's wall. He coughed lightly into his hand as Aragorn went forward eagerly and greeted the woman. The King welcomed her next, followed by his niece Èowyn, and then all attention seemed to focus on Legolas.

He swallowed, slung his bow over his shoulder, and stepped forward. "My Lady," he said softly, folding his right arm over his chest and bowing deeply. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood. I apologize for my harsh words earlier. Please forgive me. This tragedy has made me not myself lately."

A trace of a smile hinted at the woman's lips, but then she was serious again. "This tragedy has us all disturbed, Legolas Greenleaf. I accept your apology."

Legolas nodded to her and straightened from his bow, noticing the look King Theoden tossed to him. But then the King turned to the woman. "Do you two know each other?"

"We met briefly just earlier," the woman answered, her eyes still on Legolas. He held her gaze this time, studying her. He'd heard her name in the introductions; she was called Laimea, and had fair - if not dust-covered - features and long auburn hair she'd braided. The braid ended nearly at her waist. She wore a simple riding tunic and pants and a scabbard at her hip held a sword – an Elven sword, he noted.

But he had no more time to scrutinize her. King Theoden sat on his throne and the others took seats at the nearby tables to hear what she had come to say. Legolas took up a spot near one of the wooden support poles and leaned back against it.

"What has Faramir to say?" the King asked, gesturing her to sit at a bench. "We hear you have news about Frodo and Sam and the journey of the One Ring?"

Laimea did sit at one of the tables, not too far from Legolas. She looked mostly at him, Aragorn, and Gimli as she spoke, although occasionally her gaze drifted to the others. "Faramir, brother of Boromir and son of the Steward of Gondor, bid me send you word that Frodo and Sam have passed safely through Gondor and have moved on toward Mordor."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the three former members of the Fellowship. "How is Frodo faring?" Aragorn asked. "And Sam?"

Laimea took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They both fared well, but Frodo . . ."

"What?" Legolas asked, stepping forward. "What about him?" 

The woman looked at him, hearing the urgency in his tone. "I saw him with my own eyes before they left Gondor," she answered slowly. "He has resisted the Ring so far. It has not yet taken him, but . . ."

Legolas felt frustration welling up in him at her hesitation. Why wouldn't she just come out and say what she wanted to say? "But what?" he prodded, stepping closer again.

"His strength is wearing thin. He won't be able to hold off much longer. The Ring is calling to him, I could see it in his eyes."

"I knew it," Legolas whispered, turning away from her and facing the support pole. Then he turned to face Aragorn. "We should not have let the Hobbit take the Ring. He is not strong enough, he won't make it to Mordor. The Ring grows stronger with every step he takes toward Mount Doom! It'll take him before he gets there."

"And would you do better, Elf?" Aragorn asked evenly, his voice a dull edge in the silence. The look in the man's eyes made Legolas suddenly realize what he had said, and he was abruptly ashamed. Gimli looked nervously back and forth between the man and the Elf.

Legolas shook his head. "No," he finally said into the quiet. "You are right, Aragorn. Frodo has given me no reason to doubt his strength or courage. He is the only one I would trust with the One Ring."

Aragorn looked at Legolas for a second more, and then turned back to the woman, seeming to forget the conversation between him and Legolas had ever happened. "Did they have enough supplies when they left Gondor?"

She nodded. "Oh yes. Faramir gave them fresh food and blankets before they left, along with a small store of water. Although they were getting along well enough on Lembas bread, they were happy to have something different."

Legolas found himself almost smiling, remembering fondly the common complaint of the Hobbits when they'd first started on their journey – not enough meals they'd said, they were always hungry, especially Merry and Pippin. He blinked, coming back to the present just in time to hear Laimea say, "They traveled with an odd creature though."

"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked before Legolas got the chance.

"They said his name was Sméagol, and that he was bound to Frodo."

Legolas frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar. "Who?"

"Sméagol, Frodo said, but Sam always called him Gollum and other such names."

Legolas felt his back stiffen at the name and he shot a look to Aragorn, only to see the same shocked expression on the Ranger's face. Gimli simply looked from one to the other. Legolas moved swiftly to stand on the other side of the table from Laimea. "Did he seem dangerous? Did Frodo ever say anything about him? Did he ever attack the Hobbits – or any of your people? Did he ask about the Ring?" the questions streamed from his mouth like water, but he had to know.

Laimea blinked at the barrage of questions. "Well, no," she finally stammered in answer, "he didn't seem dangerous at all. Rather pathetic and harmless. Frodo seemed quite fond of him. As far as my people, he never did anything but grumble about us. I'm afraid Faramir wasn't very hospitable toward the poor thing."

"Poor thing?" Legolas repeated, on the verge of disbelief. He snatched an arrow from his quiver and held it up before the woman's face. "I should take this arrow and put it through his heart!"

She stared at him and Legolas felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over and saw Aragorn once again. The man raised his eyebrows in question.

Legolas withdrew from the woman, stepping back. "My apologies again," he said quietly, but then turned to Aragorn and whispered so no one else could hear. "Amin dele ten'sen. Gollum naa 'ksh." I am worried about them. Gollum is evil. 

"Perhaps not," Aragorn answered him. Legolas squinted at his friend, wondering how Aragorn could think that, when Gandalf the White made an entrance.

The wizard entered the room suddenly, his pure white robes seeming to glow with an inner radiance. The old man came forward to greet the woman, and they hugged warmly. "Ah, Laimea," Gandalf said. "It has been far too long, my dear girl."

She smiled back at him. "It's nice to see you again, Gandalf."

"You know each other?" Aragorn asked.

"Oh yes," Gandalf replied. "Her parents were good friends of mine. I have known her since she was a child." He smiled at the woman like a grandfather would.

"You rode all the way from Gondor?" the wizard asked her.

She nodded. "Yes. I came through the mountains, it was faster that way."

Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli exchanged glances. The horsemen around the room looked at each other as well. But Gandalf didn't seem surprised. "I am glad you made it to us safely. There are many evils lurking these days."

"I know," she answered gravely. "I have seen them. That is another reason why I took the mountain way instead of passing around."

"Gandalf," Legolas broke in, "the Lady brings news of the creature Gollum traveling with Frodo . . ."

"Ah yes," the wizard mumbled, turning around to face the Elf. He smiled beneath his long white beard. "I had sensed earlier he had yet some part to play. Now he is acting on that part."

"Is he a danger to Frodo?"

The old man grunted. "It remains yet to be seen what his actions will be, and how Frodo and Sam will respond to them. But Gollum belongs with the Hobbits now. He is vital to their quest."

Legolas did not like the answer, but he trusted Gandalf's wisdom and said nothing more about it. The pleasantries went on, but Legolas' heart remained elsewhere, until Èowyn showed Laimea to her room for the night and things began to quiet down in the throne room.

Once the women had gone Legolas unstrapped his quiver and put it and his bow on the table near him, then sat down across from where Aragorn and Gimli had taken seats. Gandalf stood at the end of the table smoking his pipe.

"What are we to do next, Gandalf?" the Elf asked the wizard, searching for answers to the restlessness of his mind.

The wizard blew out a cloud of smoke in the form of a horse, and thought for several minutes. Legolas did not prod. The others all looked at Gandalf as well, waiting patiently to hear what he would say.

He blew another puff of smoke and then spoke in his slow, thoughtful way. "The people of Rohan must go to Gondor." It was a simple statement, one that took the others in the room by surprise. The wizard turned to look at King Theoden. "All men must unite now, regardless of any past differences. Sarumon will strike soon, and his wrath will be great. Your people will not survive another battle, King of Rohan, no matter their courage."

The King made fists on the arms of his throne, but his face conveyed his understanding of his people's situation. He nodded. "I'm afraid you are right, wizard. This fortress cannot hold back another onslaught of Isengard."

"Yes," Gandalf said, "we must ready your people for yet another long journey. And we must hurry, we haven't much time."

King Theoden stood from his throne. "I will start preparations tonight," the man promised, and then motioned several of his horsemen to accompany him out to the Keep and the caves where they had set up temporary shelter.

Gandalf looked to Legolas. "The Lady Laimea is starting back to Gondor in the morning. You will accompany her as escort and scout. When you arrive in Gondor tell Faramir and his father that we will be coming as refugees and as allies in the coming war with Mordor."

Legolas gave Gandalf a nod, standing from the table. "And if we are not welcome in Gondor?"

Gandalf gave a wry smile, puffing on his pipe again. "Oh, we will be welcome. We will be welcome."

Legolas looked at Gandalf a moment, but it was clear the wizard knew something he wasn't planning on sharing. So Legolas picked up his bow and quiver and gave a small bow to his friends at the table. "Then I will retire for the night and ready myself for the journey tomorrow." Good nights were exchanged and Legolas left the throne room. But instead of going to his room he went out onto the wall of the Keep again, looking out over the moonlit plains and far green canopy of Fangorn Forest miles away, where they'd left Merry and Pippin. He stood there a long while, then closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and fell into a calming Elven meditation. He did not hear the footsteps behind him this time.

Laimea went silently in her soft leather boots up onto the Keep's wall, planning simply on having an undisturbed look out at the surrounding land. It was late; the moon was high and the last thing she expected to see was someone else out on the wall. She was exhausted but unable to sleep. She kept having nightmares about the destruction of all Middle-Earth. She thought maybe if she could just walk around for a while and not have to keep one eye open for Orcs she would be able to settle down.

She had just begun to calm her nerves when she suddenly saw someone standing several feet in front of her. She drew in a sharp breath and crouched, thinking for a second it was an enemy. But then she recognized the profile and straightened again. It was the Elf she knew as Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, standing tall and absolutely motionless in the moonlight. His skin seemed to glow, his blond hair made of the moonlight itself. He still wore his quiver and arrows, but it was all a part of him now; slender, lithe, as perfect as a guardian statue watching over Helm's Deep. 

She took a hesitant step forward and noticed his eyes were closed. He couldn't be sleeping . . . yet he looked so relaxed, so peaceful. She didn't want to disturb him, but she couldn't make herself move away. She was rooted to the spot in which she stood, staring. He was so beautiful. She felt a pang of jealousy that she had not inherited such beauty, but then resolutely shoved the thought away before it brought on more painful memories.

She turned all her attention on the Elf before her, simply looking at him. His head was slightly bowed, making him look even more unearthly. She took another few steps forward, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. 

She realized the foolishness of this sudden want and restrained her hand, blushing at even having the thought. But now that she was closer to him, she could hear his soft and even breathing, see the rise and fall of his chest. He still seemed not to know she was there, but she still couldn't leave. She just wanted to stand there in his presence. It was as if being around him made all her worries go away. She wondered at the feeling, remembering his words to her earlier that day. He hadn't been so serene and peaceful then. Perhaps he had come out on the wall to calm down as well.

On its own will her hand raised and reached out ever so slowly toward the braid that ran over his ear to lie gently on his shoulder. But before her fingers could brush his shining hair she felt her arm knocked away brutally, and then the point of an arrow hovered inches from her right eye. Her mouth dropped open, but she had no time to scream. She blinked, her heart fluttering both with fear and disbelief at the speed of his motions. She stared wide-eyed at Legolas, hardly daring to breathe.

His face was hard-lined in the moonlight now, his eyes gleaming in the reflected light like the metal point of the arrow he held to her. As peaceful and beautiful as he had been just seconds ago, he was now fierce and deadly.

"Mani naa lle umien?" he demanded in Elvish, then realizing whom he spoke to, translated. "What are you doing?"

Laimea swallowed hard. "I – I just came up for – for a walk and fresh air," she stammered. 

His eyes narrowed, but then he lowered his bow. Laimea let out a relieved sigh as the arrow fell away from her eye. He replaced the arrow and bow on his back and looked at her, his features softening slightly. "I could have killed you," he said in rebuke. "You should not sneak up on people in the dark."

He turned his back to her, once again facing out toward the stretching lands at the fortress's base. She stepped up beside him, her limbs still hot with adrenaline, but she managed to speak smoothly. "Amin sinta, ar'amin hiraetha," I know, and I'm sorry she said quietly. He looked to her abruptly at the sound of her Elvish and Laimea was pleased at his surprised expression. She went on. "Ta naa quel marthamin tanya mauea'lle tesse." It is my good luck that your fingers held. 

He stared at her, and she tried to remain outwardly impassive. Her heart pounded wildly inside her chest. She had narrowly escaped death and had nearly been caught reaching out to touch some strange Elf's hair. She fiercely hoped he couldn't see the flaming red she felt on her cheeks.

"You speak the Elven tongue well," he commented.

Laimea shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, realizing he was reassessing her. She cleared her throat. "Yes . . . well . . ." she trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

A brief silence separated them, and then he asked, "Have you traveled with my people before?"

Laimea swallowed again. "No . . . "

"Then how is it you have learned to speak our language so well?"

She sighed, hesitated. "My mother taught me to speak Elvish when I was very young. Though I haven't had much chance to speak it. I haven't met an Elf in . . . years. I am sorry if my pronunciation isn't what it should be."

"No," Legolas insisted quietly, "you speak it well." He watched her, his head tilted slightly to one side. She looked out over the wall into the distance, afraid he would see the truth written in her expression.

"Do you wear your bow and arrows to bed?" she asked suddenly, trying to change the subject. She heard him shift and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She saw the trace of a smile on his face in the moon's blue light.

"We are not out of danger yet, my Lady," he answered seriously. "I am always ready to face the enemy. It is not safe for you to be up here without escort or weapons."

Laimea shrugged slightly. "I can take care of myself." But even as she spoke she remembered the arrow that could have killed her, and found herself very grateful Orcs were not nearly as quiet or speedy as Legolas Greenleaf.

"The Steward of Gondor must have great faith in your strength to send a woman alone through the mountains," Legolas said.

Laimea faced him once again. "I am Gondor's fastest rider," she told him proudly. "And I know the mountains as well as you know the forest that bore you."

"That is reassuring," he admitted. "But perhaps you should stay with the people of Rohan and allow me to ride back to Gondor alone."

"Oh no, Master Elf," Laimea protested immediately. "I rode here, and I will ride back at the dawn. The Steward of Gondor will expect me to come with news from King Theoden."

"Then I hope you would not take offense to my accompanying you on your return journey?"

Laimea searched for an answer. She hadn't expected him to say that. He accompany her all the way back to Gondor? Her and him alone for days? "Oh . . ." she started, but then stopped. He was an Elf, not a man, and Elves had impeccable manners, not to mention chivalrous attitudes towards women. "No, Master Elf, I take no offense to your company. It would be nice to have someone besides my horse to talk to for those days of riding."

He smiled. "Good then. Gandalf had asked me to ride with you as escort and scout. They are readying King Theoden's people for travel to Gondor. They will leave shortly after we do."

"They won't be able to go very quickly with so many people."

Legolas looked out to the plains. "No. I pray they have a safe journey. There has been too much death already."

Laimea saw the look on his face. It was one of grief, guilt, like she'd first seen him on the wall when she'd arrived at Helm's Deep. Her heart felt for him, but she didn't know what to do or say to comfort him. Instead she changed the subject again. "It is nearly dawn, and I have yet to sleep. I believe I will retire for the night, Master Elf."

"Allow me to escort you to your room, my Lady?" Legolas offered quickly.

Laimea was surprised by the offer, she had yet to get used to such treatment. In answer she extended her arm. Legolas stepped up and laid his hand gently under hers, allowing her arm to rest lightly on his. 

"There are many evils lurking these days, my Lady. You should not walk in the dark alone."

Laimea smiled up at him. Her hand tingled at his touch and she scolded herself for being so giddy. She had no reason to feel this way about Legolas, whom she'd only met earlier that day . . . aside from the fact he was beautiful, courteous, and an Elf, of course. She took an inconspicuous deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled wonderful, like a fresh summer breeze. Her head cleared and she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. She'd nearly forgotten how he'd treated her that afternoon.

They were walking down the torch-lit hallway to her room when he spoke again. "Forgive my asking, but why were you on the wall at such a late hour?"

"I went for walk. I couldn't sleep. And you, Master Elf?"

"The same." His answer was short and Laimea thought he wanted to say more, but he didn't. He looked down at her, half smiling. "Did you think you could sneak up on an Elf?"

Laimea cursed the blush she felt once again blaze across her face. She looked down to the stone floor in front of her. "I – I wasn't sneaking around," she insisted. "I saw you standing there and just wanted to be sure you were all right."

They had reached her door. Legolas turned to her and Laimea found herself wishing the hallway was longer. "Then you should have announced your presence," Legolas told her, but his voice was gentle. "I am sorry if I frightened you."

Laimea shook her head. "Oh no, the fault is mine, Master Elf. If anything I am glad you are always so ready to defend Middle-Earth and its people."

He gave her a genuine smile and stepped back, bowing to her like he had when he'd first introduced himself. "Good night, my Lady. May you sleep well and be untroubled by nightmares."

Laimea tried to ignore the heartbeat in her ears as she returned his bow with a small nod. "And the same to you, Master Elf."

"If we are to be traveling together, my Lady, you must call me Legolas." His smile in the flickering torchlight made her heart ache, and she became even more frustrated with herself as she realized she was falling for him.

"Then you may call me Laimea," she said.

"Manka lle merna," If you wish he whispered. "Good night, Laimea."

"Good night, Legolas," Laimea answered through a dry mouth. "Sleep well."

He bowed again and moved off down the hall in the direction they had come. Laimea watched him go, and he seemed to be part of the hallway, moving in and out of the torches' glow, the shadows sliding over him. He looked back over his shoulder once and she immediately looked away from him, groping for the door handle in her hurry to disappear inside her room. She turned and ran right into the door, banging her forehead on the wooden planks. Her hand finally found the handle and she swung the door open, not daring to look down the hall to see of Legolas had seen. Mortified, she scurried into the darkness of her room and shut the door behind her.

Laimea leaned back against the door, breathing deep and muttering curses at herself. Everything she'd done tonight had made her look foolish, and she kept making it worse. Legolas probably thought her an idiot. She gritted her teeth and hit one fist against the door. 'Oh, stupid!' She scolded herself. 'You're acting like a child! Get a hold of yourself!'

With a heavy sigh Laimea moved carefully into her room, using the moonlight that streamed in from one narrow window on the far wall to see. She saw her bed, moved to it and took off her shoes. Then she climbed in and lied down, willing herself to go to sleep. She found it difficult. She kept thinking of Legolas and all the tales her mother had used to tell her about the Elves. A beautiful people, a peaceful people . . . Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood . . . Laimea finally fell asleep.


	2. The West Road

Chapter Two: 

The West Road

            Legolas was in the stables of Helm's Deep early the next morning, saddling up his horse for the journey.  He'd chosen a gray gelding, a stout horse he knew would make it through the harsh weather of the White Mountains.  But as he prepared his animal he kept one eye on the open barn door.  Outside the sun was rising in an orange arc above the horizon, and the chilly air had begun to warm.  Legolas knew the woman Laimea would be along any moment now.  He was interested in seeing how the woman would handle the harshness of the ride, as he couldn't imagine her coming all the way from Gondor through the mountains by herself.  

He planned on following the West Road until the White Mountains thinned out, then they would cut south through the mountains and in to Gondor.  That would be much easier and faster than taking the mountain way all the way from Helm's Deep to Gondor.  He guessed that was probably the way King Theoden would lead his people as well.

            He'd finished packing up his horse and went to the stall where Laimea's horse waited.  He knew it was her horse, because he'd never seen it in the barn before.  It was a black horse, the blackest horse he'd ever seen, and he wondered where she'd gotten it from.  Èomer had told them upon their arrival in Rohan that Sauron had taken all their black horses long ago.  He haltered it and led it from the stall, planning on starting to saddle the horse up for Laimea, when he noticed it was a stallion.

            His eyebrows rose in surprise.  A woman who could handle a stallion **and** travel through Orc-infested mountains by herself?  There was more to her than he had originally expected.  Legolas went to get the woman's saddle.

            Laimea jogged toward the stable, knowing she was late.  The sun had already begun to come over the plains and bathe the world in an orange glow, softening sharp edges.  She didn't notice the beauty of the morning.  She was tired and in a hurry, and anxious to see Legolas again.  Their encounter on the wall last night now seemed like it had only been a dream. 

            She came up to the stable and saw the front doors had been opened.  She slowed to a walk, trying to catch her breath, and stepped inside.  She stopped suddenly and blinked.  Her horse stood tied in the dirt center aisle, saddled and bridled.  The stallion pricked up his ears and nickered at her as she made her way toward him.

            There was movement behind him, and then Legolas ducked under the horse's black neck and smiled at her.  "Good morning, Laimea," he greeted lightly.

            She blinked again, looking from Legolas to her horse, not knowing what to say.

            "Oh," Legolas said quickly, stepping toward her.  "I hope I didn't offend you by readying your horse?"

            Laimea shook her head.  "No, no.  Not at all.  I am sorry for being late."

            Legolas went to the barn door, looking out toward the sunrise.  "You aren't late, look, the sun has just begun to rise."

            She watched him, standing there in the early morning light, and felt the same ache in her chest she'd felt last night in the hallway.  She looked away from him quickly and went to her horse, trying to forget about the Elf.  It would be hard to do considering she would be traveling with him for the next few days.  She unshouldered her pack, which had been refilled with food and supplies, and tied it firmly to the back of her saddle.

            When she had finished she turned to see Legolas standing slightly inside the barn door, watching her calmly.  Her eyes met his but he didn't look away.  Unnerved, she cleared her throat and untied her horse.  She felt herself starting to blush . . . again.  She led her stallion down the center aisle out of the barn, passing Legolas on the way.

            "Shall we go, then?" she asked.

            "You have said all your good byes?" was his reply, as he went to retrieve his own horse.

            "Yes."

            "As have I.  I think we should take the West Road past the Edoras River, where the White Mountains are not so thick, and then cross south into Gondor."

            "But there will be more danger along the road," Laimea said as she swung aboard her black stallion.  She looked down to Legolas just in time to see him mount his gray gelding without even using the stirrups.  He jumped lightly into the air and landed deftly on the saddle.  He glanced to her, as if to make sure she'd seen, and gathered his reins.

            "Perhaps.  But it is faster that way, and we will stick close to the foothills.  I will let no danger come to you."

            "I don't doubt you," Laimea replied.  She was halfway flattered by the statement and halfway offended.  She was a pretty good fighter herself.  But on the other hand, she enjoyed the fact that Legolas thought of himself as her protector.  They headed off toward the plains and the West Road at a trot.

            As they went side-by-side Laimea noticed Legolas rode as smoothly as he walked across the ground.  She glanced behind them once, seeing Helm's Deep grow smaller and smaller.  They rode out together into the dawn.

            By the time the sun had come over the horizon they had reached the plains and adjusted their path to run parallel and south of the West Road up against the foothills of the White Mountains.  The day had begun, and the distant chirp of birds could be heard above the rustle of the horses' hooves in the long yellow grasses.

            Legolas was glad to be away from Helm's Deep.  Out here in the wild lands he had duties to keep his mind off the past battle.  Out here he could no longer smell the stench of death.  He no longer had to wake every morning and face that broken wall.    He thought that's why Gandalf had set him out on this journey.  And of course there was Laimea . . .

Legolas turned to look at the woman who rode beside him.  She kept her eyes ahead, on the way before them, and she'd left her auburn hair free to blow back in the breeze.  She'd cleaned up, and her fair skin shone in the new day's light with an almost Elven beauty.  She wore plain riding clothes again, but they fit her well, and Legolas thought she must keep herself busy to be so trim.  She wore her Elven sword at her hip again, and rode like she'd been born on a horse.  At a trot, anyway.

            He suddenly smiled.  "You said you are Gondor's fastest rider?"

            She looked to him, a strand of her hair blowing across her face and flashing golden-red in the sun.  A slight smile played about her lips.  It suddenly struck him she was very beautiful for a Human.  He often didn't think that when it came to females of other races.  He tried to shove the thought away at her reply.

            "Yes," she answered him.  "I am Gondor's fastest rider.  Why?"

            They were coming up on an especially flat track of land.  "Would you care to race an Elf?" he asked.

            Her eyes widened, and then she looked ahead, as if to judge the land.  She looked back to him, and reined her horse to a stop.  He pulled his gelding up beside her stallion.  "What do you think?" he prodded.  "Is your horse up for it?"

            "My horse!" she repeated indignantly.  "He'll have your mount eating his dust!"

            "Is that a yes?"

            Laimea stared at Legolas, who simply smiled playfully at her, and tried not to let out the smile she felt creeping up on her.  "Well . . . "  She got no farther.  With a shout Legolas kicked his horse into motion, and then they were tearing away from her, throwing up clods of grass and dirt.  Laimea sat for a second in shock, but then closed her mouth and leaned forward, giving her horse full rein.  She yelled to him, kicking his sides, and then hung on as he lunged forward to go after the grey horse.  She would **not** be outdone.  

            The stallion stretched out over the grasses, his massive strides eating up ground rapidly.  The wind made her eyes water and Laimea could hardly tell where she was going.  All she heard was pounding hooves, but she urged him on faster, vaguely seeing the shape of Legolas' horse ahead.  The stallion picked up speed.  The land around her blurred, his long black mane whipped against her face but Laimea ignored the stinging pain.  She clung to the horse as he flew over the plains.

 And then she was riding alongside the gray gelding and Legolas.  Laimea felt a brief moment of pride as she noticed she had caught up to him, but then she was passing him.  Laimea urged her stallion on, until she could no longer see the Elf and his horse, not even when she turned her head to look behind.  Only then did she sit back and pull up on the reins.  "Whoa!" she shouted into the wind.  "Whoa, boy!  You've proved yourself."  She couldn't help the grin as the stallion finally slowed and she reined him around to look behind her.  She was out of breath and light-headed from adrenaline, but she'd done it – she'd beaten Legolas Greenleaf, even with his head start!

She patted her horse's neck, now wet with sweat, but he still pranced in place.  He wasn't even winded yet.  She walked him around in a wide circle, seeing Legolas coming up on his gelding.  She was still grinning as the Elf pulled his horse up alongside her. 

"What took you so long?" she asked casually.

He shook his head, some of his blonde hair falling over his shoulder.  "I have underestimated you," he admitted, also out of breath, as he joined her in walking a circle.  "Never have I seen a horse run like that!  Or a rider as good as you at that speed."

Laimea looked down to her hands, then back up to Legolas, feeling herself slowly beginning to calm down after such a run.  "I suppose that's a compliment?" she asked slyly.

"There are men of Rohan who would not do so well," Legolas replied truthfully.

Laimea tried to think of something that would take the focus away from her.  "Well, you know," she said, "for an Elf you seem quite reckless."

The corners of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile, making him look very young, and she wondered how old he really was.  "Elves are not always serious," he said.  "We can be rowdy as Dwarves if we want to."

Laimea let out a short bark of laughter.  That was something she couldn't imagine.  The horses had settled down and they moved out of the circle back onto their westward path.

"You don't believe me?" Legolas asked her.

Laimea recovered from her laughter and looked at him.  "I just can't imagine it, that's all."

"It's true," the Elf insisted.  "Have you never seen us merrymaking?  Never been to one of our gatherings?"

Laimea's smile faded as she thought of his words.  "No," she answered softly.

Legolas watched the woman and saw her face fall at his question.  He wondered at her reaction, and was suddenly afraid he'd said something to hurt her.  He couldn't imagine what, but it seemed that way.  Then he remembered what she'd said last night on the wall, about not having seen an Elf in years, and why would she have been to a gathering of Elves when she was a Human?  Very few outsiders were ever allowed into the Elven homes, and even fewer were allowed to take part in their festivities.  He felt ashamed at having made that point so obvious, and tried to remedy the situation.

"Then perhaps I will show you sometime."

She looked to him sharply at the statement, and he saw her eyes light up.  But he could tell she was trying to hide her excitement.  "Show me?" she repeated, in disbelief.  "Are you sure . . . you want to do that?  Is it . . . allowed?  I mean . . . "

Legolas held up a hand to stop her protests.  "Of course it's allowed," he said, looking her in the eyes.  "When the One Ring is destroyed, I will make you my guest of honor in Mirkwood."

She stared at him, her brown eyes wide, her lips forming a soft smile.  Her face was so beautiful . . . he noticed her cheeks were still flushed from the run, or maybe from her pleasure at his invitation?  "That is," he added, "only if you wish it."

Her mouth opened, but it was a second before she answered.  "Yes," she said in a near whisper.  "Yes.  I would be most honored, Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood."  Her last words were barely audible, and she suddenly tore her gaze away from him, making him blink.

Had he been staring?  He cleared his throat, looking to his horse's ears.  "Then it will be done.  I hope it will not be too long before I am able to keep my promise."

"Nor I," she said, but she didn't look at him.

"You have a beautiful horse," he said suddenly, trying to get back to something that would make her happy.  "What do you call him?"

She turned back to him, her mood lightened.  "He's called Morsul," she said proudly.

Legolas was taken aback by the name . . . more Elvish?  It was a very curious thing, to have a Human speaking so much Elvish, especially one who came from Gondor.  Perhaps she had traveled more than she let on.  Why had her mother taught her Elvish as a child?  That also, was unusual as far as he knew.

"Ah," he said aloud.  "Black Wind.  That is appropriate."

"I thought so."

He couldn't help himself.  He wanted to know.  "Why name him in Elvish?"

"I find the Elvish language much more appealing," she answered easily.

"Lle rana i'ndorea sai'?" Do you wander the lands often? he asked, slipping easily into Elvish.

"N'uma, mankoi?" No, why?   

He studied her, still surprised the ease at which she spoke his language.  He hadn't heard a Human speak it so well since Aragorn.  But Aragorn had been around Elves for years, and this woman was saying she'd hardly been around Elves, ever.  It was all very interesting.

"Ataralle istima tuulo' Tel'Quessir?" Did your mother learn from the Elves? 

Immediately he knew it was the wrong thing to ask.  A pained look briefly crossed her face. 

"I am sorry," he said quickly.  "It was an improper thing for me to ask."

"No," she protested almost as quickly.  "It's fine.  I don't mind."  But Legolas could tell she was lying.  "Yes, my mother learned from the Elves."

Her answer was hesitant, and he knew she didn't want the conversation to go in that direction.  Her reluctance to talk about the subject intrigued him, and he determined to earn her trust, to eventually find out the secret this woman obviously held close to her.  But for now he let it go, and simply said, "Your mother taught you well."

"Thank you."

He squinted over at her but she looked straight ahead.  He had a nagging feeling there was something different about her.  He suspected she was more than she pretended to be, but he didn't know what, and it was clear she wasn't going to tell him.  He'd have to find out for himself.  He didn't mind.  Elves were a very patient people.

"But I would have beaten you in a foot race," he mumbled cleverly, just loud enough for Laimea to hear.  

She burst out laughing suddenly, a light, melodious sound Legolas thought surpassed even the songs of the birds in Mirkwood.  He grinned at her, seeing how laughter lit up her face, and chuckled along with her.  They rode on toward the west.

The sun had begun its fiery descent into the distant horizon just as the two travelers reached the banks of the Edoras River.  Laimea pulled Morsul to a halt several feet away from the sloping, weed-choked bank, and frowned at the water.  She squinted and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the slanting red light of the sun.  She couldn't see much; the sun gleamed off the river's rippled surface and she couldn't tell how deep it was.

Laimea looked to Legolas, who'd ridden up beside her.  He too shielded his eyes from the sun and was judging the river.  She waited silently to hear what his thoughts would be.  

The Edoras River was made of mountain run off from the White Mountains to the south, and was one of the larger rivers she'd ever had to cross without bridge or ferry.  There had been a bridge shortly ago, but the warmer weather had started to come in and the swollen River had busted out the aged wooden bridge.  On the way to Helm's Deep she'd gone up through the Mountains and crossed it while the River was still a stream.  But they were taking a different path now and she didn't know this part of the River.

"There!" Legolas cried suddenly, startling her.  She looked over to him to see him pointing down river a little ways, where the Edoras River widened.  "That is where we should cross."

"Why there?" she asked.

"The water is deeper there."

"How can you tell?" She looked where he pointed but it looked no different from the rest of the River.

"The way the water stops and swirls there, see?  It is a deep pool, where the water does not flow so fast.  It should be safe to swim across."

Laimea nodded, finally understanding.  Although swimming across meant having to dry everything off, it would be much faster than having to go all the way around. 

Legolas clucked to his horse and they moved off along the bank toward the pool, pushing through the tall, wet weeds.  Laimea followed him on Morsul.

"I'll go first," he said, "and make sure it is safe for you.  Then you can follow me."

Laimea nodded again, and when he turned his back to her she smiled.  There he was again, being her protector.  She didn't mind.  The gray gelding hesitated at the edge of the water, but with another gentle nudge from the Elf the horse gingerly stepped into the River.

They splashed forward, deeper and deeper, until Laimea saw the horse sink a little and begin to swim.  It seemed to be no trouble; the current only gently pushed them on a diagonal course for the opposite bank.

Legolas got off his horse and held on with one hand on the saddle, letting himself be pulled along by the horse.  His gray-green cloak swirled out around him in the water.  When they neared the other bank Legolas slipped back onto the saddle and the gelding slowly made his way out of the river, trotting up through the weeds and onto dry ground.  Legolas then looked back to her.  "It is safe!" he called.  "Come ahead!"

Laimea coaxed Morsul forward to the River's edge.  He stepped in and then stopped, having only his two front hooves in the water.  The horse bent his head and snorted at the water, then tried to turn around.  Laimea caught him and reined him back around to face the water, where he promptly stopped again.

She sighed heavily in frustration.  This was a fine time for him to be acting up, after she'd bragged about him and her riding skills to an Elf.  She glanced across the River to Legolas and he ducked his head away from her.  But she saw the smile on his face and the movement of his shoulders . . . he was laughing at her!  Laimea gritted her teeth and kicked her heels into Morsul's great black sides.

He didn't budge.

She clucked to him, giving him full rein, and leaned forward, all the time thumping her heels gently and constantly against him.  She willed him to go forward with her mind, feeling humiliated by her stallion's ill-timed bout of rebelliousness.

To her relief Morsul finally stepped forward, moving reluctantly into the River's murky brown water.  The water reached her boots and then rose to her knees, soaking through her pants.  Laimea gasped at the coldness.  She didn't understand how Legolas could have voluntarily submersed himself in such freezing water.  She decided not to get off the saddle.  At least then her top half would stay dry.

The water now reached her waist and Laimea winced at the cold.  Morsul swam strongly, heading on a diagonal path to where Legolas waited on his gelding, still dripping wet.

Laimea was looking up to Legolas and halfway across the River when Morsul suddenly dropped out from under her.  She plunged into the icy water, going all the way under before she fought her way to the surface, coughing and sputtering.  She looked around wildly, thoroughly confused, and saw Morsul break the surface only a few feet away.

He thrashed in the water, throwing spray into the air from his nostrils, his eyes rolling to show the whites.  It seemed he was caught in some current.  She realized dazedly her horse kept getting farther away . . . and then she understood.  She was being swept downstream; she was no longer in the pool.  Legolas shouted something and Laimea fought panic.  She tried to remain calm; it was all she could do to stay on top of the swiftly flowing water.

A strong current coursed against her legs and pulled her under violently.  She tried to fight it, but in vain.  She was shoved one way and then another, bashed against something hard and then couldn't tell which way was up anymore.  Her chest burned, her lungs screamed for air.  She came to the surface somehow and gulped air hungrily, sucking in some water with it.  She fell into a coughing fit, feeling herself weakening.  Her teeth chattered hard and she could barely feel her body anymore.  She fought to keep her head above water.

"Leh . . . Leh . . ." she tried to yell out for Legolas but her lips wouldn't form his name.  Water splashed in her face and choked her, blurred her vision.  She couldn't see him anywhere.  Then she heard his voice faintly above the roaring river, coming from far away:  " . . . rope!" he was saying, "Catch the rope!"

She couldn't see a rope, there was too much water in her face, and her body was too frozen to move it around to look any more.  She struggled to keep her arms moving enough to keep afloat.

Her back hit against something suddenly and it stopped her forward movement for a moment, then she slowly began to slide under it.  Vaguely she saw a finely braided Elven rope, and knew that's what she'd hit against.  She had no idea where it'd come from but heaved one numb arm up and hooked her elbow over it.  Her fingers wouldn't work to grip it.  Then she hung there, having no more strength left.  Her body dangled out behind her in the current of the Edoras River.  

She couldn't feel her legs anymore, but thought it curious she was getting warm.  The water around her grew dimmer.  Somewhere she heard splashing, and then she was taken from the rope and noticed she moved in a different direction now.  She was hefted into strong arms and suddenly felt real warmth against her left cheek.  She squinted up, seeing Legolas' hovering face above her, looking down with worried eyes.  His mouth moved, but she couldn't hear the words.  Somewhere in her mind she realized he was carrying her and the warmth she felt was her head against his chest.

She stared up at him, sinking into the beauty of his clear blue eyes.  But his face suddenly became eclipsed by darkness, and she knew nothing more of that night.

She woke slowly, becoming painfully aware of the throbbing in her temples.  Laimea groaned, wondering what could have given her such a headache.  Had she fallen off Morsul?  She hoped not.  It would be horribly embarrassing to fall off in front of - Where was he anyway?  Laimea pulled her eyes open slowly, wincing as light entered the darkness.  She saw open sky above her, ashen gray with the dawn.  She groaned, trying to lift a hand to her aching head.  Her arm was held to her side by some restraint.  Frustrated, Laimea turned her head ever so slowly to look around.  She saw Legolas' horse standing not too far away, but there was no sign of the Elf himself.  She sighed, turning her head carefully to the other side.  A small fire burned only as coals now near her left side, and she saw she'd been wrapped chin to feet in a blanket, tucked snugly in.

She wished she could remember what had happened.  The last thing she remembered was trying to get Morsul to cross the river.  Legolas appeared beside her noiselessly, making her jump.  He knelt on one knee next to her, a relived look crossing his fair features.  

"You are awake," he observed in a quiet voice.  "How do you feel?"

Laimea swallowed, her throat was very dry.  She shrugged weakly in the confines of the blanket.  "I – I just have a headache . . . and I'm thirsty," she said gruffly.

Legolas swept his fingers across her forehead, brushing her hair back.  He pressed his cool palm to her skin, and Laimea relished the touch.  It soothed her headache . . . she wondered if she was imagining things or if he was really using some kind of Elvish healing power.  "That is better," he murmured.

Then he moved away, went somewhere out of her vision, and returned shortly with a water sack and a square piece of Lembas bread.  He knelt next to her again.  "Here," he said, offering her the water first.  His other hand helped lift her head as she drank.  Laimea closed her eyes as the cool water flowed down her burning throat.  When she had drank her fill he held the Lembas bread up to her mouth, and she took a few bites of it before she felt entirely full and rested.  She had to hold back a smile as she ate, thinking never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined she'd be lying in Rohan being hand-fed by an Elf.

He put the food and water away and Laimea once again tried to bring her arms up, but the blanket restricted her movement.  When he came back to her she complained.  "The blanket . . . I can't move my arms."

He looked sheepish for a moment.  "Oh.  Your body was so cold . . . it was the only way I could keep your heat from escaping."

She frowned at him.  "Um . . . Legolas?" she asked slowly.  "I – I don't remember what happened."

He sat down beside her, and she wondered why the hell he wouldn't unwrap her from the blanket.  But he looked to be explaining things, so she waited.  "You were crossing the river on Morsul, through the pool.  A current caught hold of your mount, and you both went beneath the River's waves."  He paused, looking down to his hands, and then back at her.  "You were swept downriver, and I thought you were lost to me . . . but then you surfaced again."

Laimea's eyes widened at his words.  "Morsul . . ." she whispered, a cold feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. 

"The stallion is fine," Legolas assured her, and Laimea exhaled an explosive breath.  She closed her eyes, letting the relief flood over her.  "He is a strong swimmer, and reached the bank safely," Legolas said.  "But you were far from him.  I went downriver ahead of you and tied my Elven rope to the end of one arrow."

Laimea opened her eyes again, remembering vaguely the rope he spoke of.  And she remembered the River; the icy grip of the water . . . Legolas went on.

"I shot the arrow point into a tree trunk across the river, low so that you would run into it, and you did.  I thank Ilùvatar you were able to hang on to it.  I had to come into the river and carry you out . . . you were very cold, and cut yourself on something under the water, I guess."

"Cut myself?" Laimea echoed.  She didn't feel any pain, except a little in her head now.

"Yes.  You had a cut on your head, here."  He reached forward and gently touched two finger tips above her left eyebrow.  Then he drew back, "And a bad slash on your left arm, above the elbow."

Laimea thought about her arm, and realized it did hurt just a little.  Odd though, that she hadn't noticed before.

"I treated your wounds with an Elvish medicine," Legolas explained.  "Your injuries are nearly healed already.  They will be all but gone by the time night comes upon us again."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Just a night.  The sun has hardly awakened this land yet today."

"What about the blanket?"

Legolas looked away again.  "Your clothes were wet.  You were shivering uncontrollably.  I built the fire, put you next to it and wrapped you in the blanket to keep you warm."

"I feel much better now," Laimea told him.  "Thank you.  But can I get out of the blanket now?  I would like to stretch, I've been lying here all night."

"Yes," Legolas answered quickly.  "I will get your clothes for you."

He stood and left, and Laimea stared after him.  'I will get your clothes for you?'  Laimea shifted inside the blanket, realizing she wore only her undergarments.  She immediately felt self-conscious, and her face grew fever-hot as she thought of Legolas seeing her in her underclothes.  Then he was back, setting her neatly folded tunic and pants beside her.  He then reached over her and pulled on one part of the blanket near her legs. 

She felt the blanket loosen around her body, enough that she could bring her arms out of it.  She looked to Legolas, and he stood and backed away from her, then turned his back.  She watched him for a second and then figured out he was waiting for her to get properly dressed.

She cleared her throat, trying not to be embarrassed, and sat up slowly, grimacing at the dull ache that washed through her head again.  She pushed off the blanket and grabbed her tunic quickly.  The morning air was chilly, and she was anxious to have real clothes on.  She had a bandage wrapped tightly around her arm above her elbow and it took some time for her to pull the tunic's sleeve over it.

She buttoned the tunic up the front and then stood to pull on her pants.  She cast furtive glances in the Elf's direction to be sure he wasn't looking.  He wasn't.  She tried to hurry and nearly tripped herself, but managed to regain her balance before she fell into the fire's ashes.  

A sharp pain laced through her left arm as she pulled up her pants and Laimea gave a short cry, surprised at the sudden pain.  Legolas spun around at her cry, and she shrieked as she saw him turn.  He took her in at a glance and then quickly turned his back to her once again.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.  "I didn't mean to – I just thought that – "  

Laimea fixed her breeches and swore at the pain in her elbow.  "Ow," she said, putting her right hand to the bulge of the bandage under her sleeve.  

"Are you dressed now?"  Legolas asked.

"Yes," Laimea answered.

He turned around to face her again and went to her side quickly.  "Mani naa raika?" What is wrong? he asked worriedly.

 "My arm," she said, "it hurts a little."

"It will be sore for a little while," he told her.  "But the medicine will do its duty, and soon your arm will be as it was, strong as ever."

She looked up to him, and his face was very near her own.  They looked at each other for a moment, her brown eyes meeting his clear blue ones.  A silence stretched out into the morning.

Legolas broke it suddenly.  "I am sorry . . . I didn't mean to see you like that . . . "

Laimea cast her eyes down at his words, her blush growing stronger instead of fading away.  She ran her fingers through her hair and shrugged a little.  "Well, you saw me in my underclothes last night, why not now?"

It was the Elf's turn to be uncomfortable.  "Laimea," he said gently, and she looked up to his face at the sound of her name.  He was so close.  Her heart seemed to slow, so every beat coursed through her entire body.  She breathed in his smell; it was intoxicating, making her head swim.  She nearly startled at his next words.

"My people are a modest people," he said.  "I hope you do not think I removed your garments for any other reason than to help you recover."

Laimea swallowed hard, images of Legolas removing her clothes flashing through her mind.  The thought made her body flush with heat and she moved away from him, disturbed at the intense feeling.  "No," she said hoarsely, and cleared her throat once more that morning.  "I do not accuse you of anything improper, Legolas," she whispered.  "I was just surprised."

He stood watching her and she kept her back to him, and another silence stretched out between them.  Then she heard him move through the grass, and soon he stepped in front of her, holding her riding boots in one hand and her sword and scabbard in the other.  He held them both out to her and bowed slightly.

"For the Lady, if she will forgive me."

Laimea took her boots first and pulled them on, half smiling.  "Forgive you for what?" she asked.  "Saving my life?"

Legolas straightened, his face brightening.  "Then you are not offended?"

"No!" Laimea exclaimed, taking her sword from him.  "You ask me that far too often, Legolas."

"It seems I am often doing things I fear might offend you," he admitted.

Laimea buckled her sword belt around her waist, adjusting the light weight of the Elven sword on her hip and noticing her left arm wouldn't be able to support a weapon for awhile.  She glanced up to him, tossing her hair over her shoulder.  "If I am offended by anything you do, Legolas Greenleaf, you'll know."

He gave her a smile in return and then looked out to the rising dawn.  He turned his attention back to her after a moment.  "Are you fit for riding?" he asked.

"Yes.  I feel almost fine now, thanks to you."

"I wouldn't surrender you to the River," he said.  "Not on my life."

She smiled gratefully at him, eyeing his graceful figure, his golden presence in the dawn.  The rising sun seemed drawn to him, creating a glow about him; a halo of shining light that framed his body.  She reached out cautiously to him without thinking, and the fingertips of her right hand brushed the fair locks of hair that fell over his shoulder.  His hair was silken soft.

Legolas' hand rose and fell over her own, pressing her hand to his chest.  The feel of his hand on hers sent shivers up her arm.  His fingers curled around her palm, but otherwise he stood perfectly still, his gaze looking deep into her soul.

Laimea blinked suddenly, realizing what she'd done, and pulled away abruptly.  "Time is short," she said, her voice slightly trembling.  "We must ride now."  She turned away from Legolas and found Morsul standing a little ways off from the camp.  She went to the horse, seeing he'd been hobbled and the saddle and bridle lied close by.  She bent to pick up the saddle, hiding the grimace as her left arm protested the weight.  

They had both readied their horses and dispersed the ashes of the fire in a short time, and then they mounted and headed off again to the west.  Laimea rode in silence for much of the morning, her mind racing with the feelings coursing through her.  What had possessed her to do that?  It was the second time she'd wanted to reach out and touch him, only this time she'd done it.  And he hadn't protested.  He hadn't moved away or pushed her hand away.  Laimea didn't look at Legolas as they rode.  She was afraid of what his little "approval" of her motion might mean.  Why had he looked at her like that?  Laimea shook her head, confused, and wondered what her mother would say if she'd witnessed her daughter reaching out like that to an Elf.

Legolas rode slightly behind the woman and watched her closely.  Emotions played over her face constantly, changing like wind over the mountains.  He wondered what she was thinking about.  She wouldn't look at him, but he was glad for it, because he liked to simply sit and watch her.  He'd watched her for most the night last night, under the fire's glow, studied her quiet breathing, the shape of her face, her lips.  Her eyes and the dark lashes that framed them.  Her body too, was gorgeous, as he'd noticed last night when dressing her wounds.  He remembered the clutching panic he'd felt when she'd fallen under the River's water, and wondered at it.  It'd been more than concern for a fellow traveler, but how much more, he did not know.

And what had she meant by that touch earlier?  He had to admit he hadn't minded it; the feel of her warm hand against his had been pleasurable.  He mulled over the emotion he felt for her, trying to define it.  It was a curious thing, for sure, to feel any thing even similar to what he'd begun to feel for a Human woman.

He sighed, thinking again of the cold, shivering form he'd pulled from the River the night before.  Healing her had dominated his thoughts, and all night he'd stayed awake at her side, observing her.  He was immensely relieved she'd not been hurt seriously, and now he kept guard over her more closely than ever.  He promised himself he'd never let her in a dangerous situation again.  

Her hair tossed over her shoulders in the breeze, the soft waves of curls shining in the sun.  He wanted to wrap his fingers in it, breathe in her scent, hold her to him.  The sentiments were unusual; he'd never felt anything for a Human before.  Legolas was glad they would have a few more days alone together.  It would give him time to sort out his feelings, and perhaps talk to Laimea about her own.  By the end of their journey Legolas hoped to have learned much more about the woman he traveled with.


	3. Ill Dreams

Chapter Three: Ill Dreams

****

            Legolas watched the black swarm of Urak-hai gather at the base of the Deeping Wall, feeling his hope fizzle like the fire of the torches in the heavy rain.  He struggled against the hopelessness welling up within him, knowing it would only weaken him in the coming battle.  He would need all his wits about him if he were to see the next dawn.  He cast a sideways glance over to Aragorn; tried to take strength from the Man's expression of hard determination.  

            The Elf also sent a look in Haldir's direction, trying to take comfort in the presence of the other Elven warriors.  Still, in his heart, he knew they would not survive.  And then suddenly he saw the battle had started, the Orcs were everywhere, appearing inside the Deeping Wall without ladders or catapults.  He knew somewhere in his mind this was all wrong, but the Orcs were there, cutting down his fellow Elves like they were nothing more than blades of grass.

            Legolas watched in horror, his hands twitching at his sides, aching for the feel of the bow and arrow, but Legolas could not make himself reach back for his weapon.  He watched helplessly, frozen, as the Orcs came toward him, slashing, killing, spraying blood everywhere.  Man and Elf fell before their swords.

            Aragorn went to fight them, and was cut down mercilessly.  Legolas stepped forward, his throat choking with grief.  Haldir fell next, ran through on a black Orc blade, and Gimli the Dwarf charged in with his axe flashing in the rain.  The Dwarf, too, fell under the onslaught of blades, his throat cut.  Blood splattered over Legolas' face; he couldn't raise a hand to wipe it away but tasted its sour bitterness in his mouth.

            No one stood between him and the Orcs now.  He stared at them, face to face.  There was an orange glow that rose behind them in the black night, a fiery presence that grew over the wet stone walls like the rising sun.  The shape solidified, grew enormous, glared over the army of Orcs and down at Legolas.  The Elf stared up at the Eye, the Eye of Sauron, crushing him under its evil stare, suffocating him with its presence.

            Words rumbled out of the darkness, vibrating in Legolas' chest, shaking the very foundations of Helm's Deep – words in the Black Tongue of Mordor, which for some reason he now couldn't understand.  The words pierced his ears and echoed in his head, making Legolas wince.  From the Eye came an Orc carrying a flaming torch, running for the drain.  Legolas tried for his bow and arrows, but couldn't find them.  They were no longer on his back.

            The Orc ran, seeming to mock him, laugh at him, and Legolas saw the destruction of all Middle-Earth flash before his eyes.  The Human woman Laimea came suddenly from behind him, wielding her Elven sword high, aiming for the running Orc's thick neck.  Legolas knew she wouldn't make it.  He cried out to her hoarsely, tasting blood again, though this time he thought it was his own.  He leapt forward, crashing into her body, knocking her aside.  The arrow that would have pierced her hit him instead and Legolas grunted at the impact.  He looked down and saw the ugly tip of an Orc arrow sticking out from his chest.  His blood ran down to mix with rain on the Deeping Wall.  

            The woman screamed something at him, but Legolas couldn't understand her.  He was falling . . . she caught him in her arms, lowered him to the ground.  The Orc with the torch ran on, and reached the drain.  There was an explosion, and Legolas saw only blinding white light . . .

            "Legolas!"

            The Elf sprang to his feet in one fluid motion, glancing everywhere at once, his hands automatically reaching for his bow and not finding it.  Panic took him for a brief second until he finally saw the woman Laimea standing before him, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

            He blinked at her.  "Mani naa ta?" What is it? he asked breathlessly, his eyes still flicking around their camp and straining in the darkness.

            "You were having a nightmare," she said, her hands still gripping his shoulders tightly.

            Legolas brought his gaze back to her, his mind finally registering his surroundings.  He blinked at her again, then pulled away, rubbing a hand over his face.  He turned from her, still trying to shake the horrible feeling the dream had left on him.  He saw his bow and arrows and his two knives, lying where he'd left them near his bed pallet.  "Elves don't sleep," he said hoarsely. 

            "You were sleeping," she insisted.  "And you were having a nightmare.  Your calling woke me up."

            He spun back to face her.  "No.  No nightmare.  Engwarkaimelea." Ill dreams 

            "Well, it seemed the same to me.  Are you all right?"

            Legolas hesitated in answering.  He remembered the dream, remembered the arrow that would have killed the woman.  The arrow that had instead ended his own life.  Did the dream mean something, or was it simply his fears coming to life?  "Amin quel," I'm fine he said finally, quietly.  

            "Are you sure?" she asked, and he heard genuine concern in her tone. 

            "Uma.  Yes."  Legolas felt sweat over his body and rubbed his hand down his face again, expecting to wipe away the blood he'd felt in his dream.  It had been so vivid . . .

            "Go back to sleep," he told her, gesturing at her sleep pallet across the remains of their small fire.  "You need your rest.  I will stay awake.  I need to think."

            She frowned at him, cocking her head to one side and studying him.  He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny and looked away from her intense gaze.  He went to his pallet and sat down cross-legged on it.  

            The woman hesitated a moment longer, acting like she wanted to say more, perhaps question him about his dream.  But in the end she said nothing and simply went back to her own pallet and lied down.  

            "Well," she said after a short silence, haltingly, as if she were embarrassed, "I will be here . . . if, you know . . . you need me.  Or . . . if you want to talk . . . or anything." 

            Legolas looked over to her, surprised at the offer, but she rolled over and turned her back to him, sighing.  He smiled slightly despite himself.  Her hair fell out behind her on the blanket, glowing softly in the light from the dying embers.  She'd worn it down all that day, and he loved to watch the curls as they flew in the wind.  If he had his way he'd never want her to wear it in a braid again.

            Shaking his head, Legolas tore his eyes from her and focused them on his hands in his lap.  He wanted to contemplate his dream, analyze it if he could.  If there was any meaning in it, he wanted to try and find it.  Most of it he didn't understand.  Aragorn and Gimli had not died in the Battle of Helm's Deep.  Laimea had not even been present there.  He wondered at it all, a hand going to the spot of his chest where the arrow had hit.  Laimea was a Human, a mortal, whose whole lifespan was a mere speck in the span of his own being.  But he was not immortal himself, and he could die.  He'd seen many great Elves fall at Helm's Deep.

            He looked across the fire to her.  Would he take an arrow for her?  Did he feel that strongly for her?  Would he give up his own centuries of living to prolong her short existence?  He had pledged his bow and his life to the Fellowship, and wouldn't hesitate to give himself to death to protect Aragorn, Gimli, and the Hobbits.  But she was not of the Fellowship.

            He thought of the accident at the Edoras River again, just the past night, and sighed deeply.  He would have done anything to save her life at that point, and knew in his heart he'd protect her life with his own if necessary.  She was his charge on this journey, and he would see her safely to Gondor.

            Legolas reached to his side and unsheathed one of his long knives, holding it up in the near darkness.  The fire offered little light anymore; they couldn't risk keeping one going all night for fear of being spotted by prowling Orcs.  The silver moon was high but only half full, and Legolas tilted the curved blade to catch the light.  The hilt fit his hand perfectly and Legolas ran his left hand along the Elven script that threaded up the smooth metal.  

            The knife gleamed white in the moonlight, finely cleaned and polished.  But it had spilled dark Orc blood before, and knew the feel of Orc flesh.  Legolas stood, weighing the knife in his hand, slicing it through the air a few times.  Sauron would bring down his armies again; Legolas would be ready to fight.  If his dream held any ill omens, he would be ready in the future battle.  "Aragorn ar' Gimli n'lantuva re'na amin sal'suula!" he vowed aloud to the night.  Legolas looked up to the moon, thinking of the Eye of Sauron and wondering if it watched him even now.

            He shuddered at the thought; looked back to his knife.  He began to pace the camp noiselessly in the light Elven boots.  He didn't sleep the rest of the night.

            Laimea lied awake a long time, listening to the restless movements of the Elf.  She wanted to comfort him somehow, but had no idea what she could do.  He hadn't told her what the dream had been, and she hadn't asked.  But he'd been yelling out names before she woke him.  Aragorn's and Haldir's . . . and hers.  She'd gone over to wake him up, and just before she'd reached him he'd called out to her.  She thought he was already awake for a second, his eyes were half-open, but then she'd realized he was still dreaming.  Yet he'd said her name loudly, his voice strained with grief and horror.  

            Laimea curled herself up on her bed pallet, goose bumps racing down her arms at the thought.  His cries had been terrible, heart-broken.  She'd never heard anyone sound like that before . . . it was as if by living longer the Elves' emotions went deeper, and she'd just briefly caught a glimpse of the long sadness they were capable of feeling.

            He suddenly spoke aloud from across the fire, swearing an oath in a harsh whisper:  "Aragorn and Gimli will not fall while I still breathe!"  Had he dreamt of their deaths then?  What did she have to do with any of it?  Laimea groaned silently to herself and tried not to think about it.  She needed to sleep; tomorrow they would enter the White Mountains.  

            Laimea forced her mind to remain blank, and eventually she did fall into a light doze.  She awoke sometime later when the moon was waning, and rolled over to see Legolas standing over the smoking ashes of the fire.  He stared ahead into the Mountains, straight and tall and motionless, as if he'd grown up from the ground.  The moon's light silhouetted his body, outlining him in silver and casting the lines of his face and the folds of his clothes in deep shadow.  He wore his bow and quiver but not his knives.  

            Laimea watched him for a while, but he never moved, not so much as a twitch.  She didn't think he even blinked.  After awhile her lids grew heavy and Laimea fell once again to sleep.  In the morning she couldn't tell if she'd been dreaming him or not.

            Legolas awoke her at dawn and Laimea roused slowly, blinking away sleep.  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, yawning.  Legolas smiled down at her softly and Laimea ran her hands through her hair, trying to organize the tangles.  "Good morning," she said.

            "Quel amrun," he returned.  He offered down a hand to her to help her up.

            Laimea accepted his hand, feeling giddy as his fingers wrapped strongly around her palm.  He pulled her up easily and she nearly fell into him, but caught herself with a hand against his chest.  She pushed away from him gently, feeling lean muscle under his tunic.

            "Thank you," she whispered, and moved away from him.  She went to her saddle pack and took out a few pieces of jerky, gnawing on the dried meat as she started to roll up her blanket.  She saw he had already packed, but he went now to saddle up his horse.  She moved quickly and was ready to travel soon after the Elf himself was.

            Laimea swept her hair back, attempting to braid it.  She cursed its length and the absence of a good comb as she did so, knowing leaving it free the day before had only tangled it more.  She saw Legolas watching her, an amused expression on his face.  She rolled her eyes at him and faced the other way, knowing Elven hair probably never tangled.  

            "Loskelle naa vanima," Your hair is beautiful Legolas said suddenly.

            Laimea froze.  Her heart quickened behind her ribs and she wondered if she had heard him right.  She forced her fingers to move again, to keep braiding, but suddenly she couldn't remember how.  

            "Ta naa ve'aure no'yavielassea." It is like sunlight on autumn leaves. 

            Laimea swallowed hard, turning around slowly to look at him.  Legolas stood next to his horse, smiling.  

"Diola lle," Thank you she said hesitantly, not knowing what else to say.

            He bowed to her slightly and Laimea finished braiding her hair with stiff fingers.  She mounted Morsul then and Legolas sprang onto his gelding, once again neglecting the stirrups.  If the past sleepless night had any effect on him he didn't show it.

They turned south, heading up into the foothills of the White Mountains.  Legolas led the way.  As they rode Laimea decided to broach the subject of his dream.  He had been bold enough with her, and it was time she speak her mind to him.

            "What did you dream about last night, Legolas?" she asked as casually as she could.

            He glanced back over his shoulder briefly.  Laimea urged Morsul up to ride beside him and trapped him under her gaze.  His expression turned somber and his brow furrowed.    

            "Do not trouble yourself about it," he answered.  

            "What if I want to trouble myself about it?"

            His blue eyes flicked over to meet hers for a moment.  She held his questioning look and forced herself to go on.  "You said Aragorn and Gimli would not fall while you still breathed.  What does that mean?"

            His eyebrows rose momentarily.  "You were awake?"

            "Yes.  And I heard you calling names earlier, when you were dreaming.  One of them was . . . mine."

            He frowned, looked away from her.  His jaw tensed.  Laimea waited patiently, but it took him a long while to speak again.  When he turned his eyes back to her she saw great sorrow in their blue depths, and her heart ached for him.

            "Elves do not often dream," he told her quietly.  "But when we do it is often a warning of the future, whether for good or ill.  I saw the deaths of my friends Gimli and Aragorn; saw Haldir fall again."  Legolas' shook his head.  "Amin gorga kaimelamin natuluva anwa." I fear my dream will become real. 

            Laimea had to think a little to translate the statement, but when she understood him she frowned.  "But I heard Haldir fell at the Battle of Helm's Deep?"

            "Yes."  The word choked from his mouth and Laimea winced.  He was hurting and she was forcing him to talk about it.  But perhaps it would be of more help to him in the end.

            "Then your dream cannot all be true," she said, trying to console him.

            "If only Elrond or Galadriel were here now, to offer counsel," he muttered.  "They know the workings of dreams."  He turned to her abruptly.  "There is much in my dream I do not understand."

            "Maybe it is only a dream," she said simply.

            He squinted, his gaze going past her.  "Maybe," he repeated in a whisper.  He didn't sound convinced.  "But if it is a glimpse of what is to come I will be ready.  I will not allow Aragorn and Gimli to fall while I live!"

            He fell silent, and Laimea waited a moment before speaking again.  "And was I in your dream, Legolas?"

            The passionate fire left his face and he appeared troubled again.  "Yes," he admitted reluctantly.

            "And did I die?"  Laimea asked calmly.  But her breath became short as she waited for his answer.  Did she really want to know?  If he had seen the future, and it all came true . . .

            "No," he said firmly.

            She exhaled a quiet breath of relief, but then felt guilty for the reaction.  

            "You were . . . " he struggled for words, "saved from death.  Though you fought bravely."

            "Fought?" she inquired immediately.  "You dreamt of a battle then?  How did it end?"

            He didn't answer her.

            "I am sorry," she said softly.  "I meant only to try and help you understand it better, but it seems I am only doing more to trouble you."

            He looked over to her again and she nearly drew back at the look in his eyes.  They brimmed with pain and Laimea could do nothing but look back at him.  

"My heart is already troubled," he whispered.  "But perhaps you have helped in ways you do not know."

Laimea struggled for something to say, but all words died in her throat.  Instead she reached out to him, moving Morsul to ride close to his gelding, so that her leg nearly touched his.  She laid a hand on his arm gently, trying to convey her want to ease his grief.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a grateful smile.  The darkness in his eyes lightened.  "I will tell you some of your answers when I know of them."  He paused.  "There is great comfort in your presence, Laimea Lady of Gondor," he whispered.

Laimea took her hand from his arm.  Her heart rejoiced at his words, though she outwardly denied it.  She looked down to Morsul's ears in front of her.  "I'm afraid there isn't," she said.  "I've done nothing but cause you to remember painful things today."

"But you lessen the pain," Legolas said, "no matter what you may think.  You lighten the gloom in my heart."

Laimea peered at him curiously, blushing at his compliments.  Her heart thundered blood past her ears.  She remembered his remark about her hair earlier that day and swallowed hard.  "Do you speak the truth?" she asked, her voice wavering.  She dared not to hope he actually did think her hair was beautiful, or enjoy her company; she didn't think she could resist temptation if in fact he continued to make such sentiments known.

His smile this time showed faint dimples on his cheeks.  "I am an Elf," he said.  "Elves always speak the truth.  I say nothing without meaning it."

His smile warmed her to her toes.  Laimea swallowed again, turning to the front and taking a deep breath to compose herself.  "Then I am glad I can bring you some comfort," she said formally.

Legolas didn't reply to her statement and she stole a sideways glance at him.  He looked at her steadily; the same intense, encompassing stare she'd seen him watch her with before.  She took her eyes away from him, refusing to notice how attractive he looked while studying her; refusing also to acknowledge the enjoyment she took from knowing he concentrated on her so deeply.

She nudged Morsul forward, edging in front of the Elf so that she could no longer see that adorable smile.  But she thought that tomorrow she would leave her hair unbraided.  She found his attentions pleasing despite the insistent voice in her head that warned her about getting too close to an Elf.  

They talked little throughout the morning, lost in their own thoughts as they climbed gradually up into the bosom of the Mountains.  The sun rose slowly from the grasses of the plains of Rohan, spilling rays of rose and pale orange into the dark valleys of the Mountains.  The day brightened, first in the East, but then the light spread out from the sky, slowly creeping over the lands and stirring wildlife.  The sun gleamed through the Gap of Rohan, alighting the mighty blue mountain peaks.  It shone its rays through the narrow windows of Helm's Deep; cast warmth over the weary soldiers still standing guard outside the Keep.  The orange glow of dawn fell over the broken wall, resting on the heap of cracked stones and then sliding noiselessly over the fresh mounds of graves.  It woke the plains' grasses from shadow, moving on toward the west; piercing through the heavy smoke of destruction that still hung over Orthanc.

The sun rose lazily into a clear blue sky, indifferent to the lives of those who passed below in its light.  The sun was old and had seen the birth of the Elves and the passing of all the Ages.  It shone down on the wars and the Elf-songs alike.  It rose and fell that day as it had for millennia, unchanging and uncaring.

Its light finally fell on the sharp sides of the White Mountains as it reached the pinnacle of the sky.  Dark stone lightened and white snow glittered like so many tiny diamonds.

Legolas took a deep breath of the cold mountain air and when he exhaled his breath puffed out before him.  It had grown considerably colder the higher they climbed.  The horses picked their way up the rocky slopes steadily and Legolas let the woman lead.  His gelding followed Morsul's path; the only sound now was the clatter of their hooves on the rocks.

Ahead of him Legolas saw Laimea pull her cloak tighter around herself.  Legolas thought the cold air invigorating, but then Humans felt temperature changes more than Elves did.  He would have to be sure to make a larger fire for her tonight.  The sun beat down on them from above, but it did little to warm them, and as the day wore on Legolas found himself thinking of the heavily shaded forests of Lothlòrien.  He breathed in again, thinking he could almost smell the sweet scent of growing things.   How he had loved their time in the Golden Wood . . . if only he had known Gandalf survived he would have enjoyed himself even more.  

Legolas sighed heavily, thinking it would have been nice to have the woman's company in Lothlòrien.  If she enjoyed the thought of visiting Mirkwood, Lothlòrien would render her speechless.  He often found himself at a lack of words when confronted with the beauty of the place.  The Elf closed his eyes, taking himself back to the forest where he had walked deep paths into the dappled shade of mallorn trees, and slept in talans high above the ground.  He still heard the raised Elven voices singing, first in lament for Gandalf and then in more joyful tones as they recounted past moments of the Wizard's life.  They had been singing the whole time the Fellowship rested there, ceaselessly, and many times Legolas had gone to join them in their songs.  

That place had brought him peace after so many days of danger and toil; it was pure and unspoiled by the darkness that had claimed his own homeland.  He hoped he could arrange a visit for himself and Laimea once this war was over . . . if Frodo ever got the Ring to Mordor.  Legolas shoved away the creeping suspicions that nagged the back of his mind.  He could not allow himself to doubt the Ring-bearer.  The Hobbit was Middle-Earth's only hope, and in his heart Legolas knew no other being would have such a chance at succeeding as Frodo.  At least he and Sam were still alive and well, and heading in the right direction.  Legolas prayed Frodo would last the journey, knowing even the stoutest hearts were prone to corruption eventually.

The Elf allowed himself no more thoughts on Frodo and the Ring.  Instead he turned to his memories of Lothlòrien once again, contenting himself to simply remember the feel of the grasses beneath his feet and the welcome sound of wind in the trees.  He was a Woodland Elf at heart, and nothing calmed him more than standing beneath a canopy of beautiful green.

He thought of the Elf Queen Galadriel, and closing his eyes again began to hum the lines of a song he'd heard Gandalf sing in Edoras.  Soon he was singing the words softly:

"In Dwimordene, in Lòrien

Seldom have walked the feet of Men,

Few mortal eyes have seen the light

That lies there ever, long and bright.

Galadriel!  Galadriel!

Clear is the water of your well;

White is the star in your white hand;

Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land

In Dwimordene, in Lòrien

More fair than thoughts of Mortal Men."

"You sing of Lòrien.  Have you been there?"

The question jolted Legolas from his thoughts and he snapped his eyes open to see Laimea twisted around in her saddle, looking at him.  He blinked at her, surprised she had been listening.  But then he smiled.  "You have keen ears, Lady of Gondor."

She flashed him a return smile and pulled Morsul back to ride alongside him again.  "It is hard not to listen when an Elf sings," she confessed.

"Perhaps you should sing something for me, then?" he tried.  

She laughed lightly.  "Oh no.  I am afraid I have no skill in that."

He looked at her seriously.  "Surely a creature with a voice such as yours can sing," Legolas insisted.

"And what do you mean by that?" Laimea demanded, only half in fun.

Legolas caught her brown-eyed gaze and held it.  "Your laughter alone is as beautiful as birdsong," he said softly, hoping the remark wouldn't cause her to draw away.  "I cannot imagine you sounding any worse than an Elf when you raise your voice in song."  He smiled wryly, half teasing about her earlier remark.  But as he looked at her his blood quickened in his veins.  She met his eyes evenly, her eyes as rich a brown as the hearts of trees.  Her braided hair still swept low enough to cover half her ears, and long wild strands of it had come loose, dancing freely across her finely shaped cheeks and over her forehead.  She had changed tunics from the one that'd been torn in her fight with the River, but the green one she wore now still fit her well and accentuated the deep brown of her eyes and golden-red sheen of her hair.  The Elven sword hung at her hip, the belt slung low, showing her figure.  

He swallowed.  

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Prince of Mirkwood," she said with a slight smile, "but my singing voice is a far cry from an Elf's – or a bird's."

"I will teach you the words," he said, ignoring her protests.  "And then you can sing here for me and the Mountains, and we will tell you of how musical your voice is."

She only looked at him, disbelieving.

He smiled again at her.  "You will know Lòrien," he promised.  "Your eyes will see the Golden Wood, and then you will be glad for song, for the beauty of the forest there makes all creatures want to sing!"

She peered at him curiously, as if he spoke of foreign things.  But he ignored her look and kicked his gelding on to a faster pace, singing the words aloud and gesturing for her to join in.  She brought Morsul up to match his pace, but hesitated to sing a long while.  He wouldn't give up, however, and eventually he coaxed her into singing a verse or two, and when she knew the song he fell silent and listened to her sing.

Her confidence grew as he continued to encourage her to sing, and as the day went on he taught her many different songs.  She surprised him yet again by knowing a few already – in Elvish nonetheless.  When the sun began to set he let her lead again, closing his eyes and losing himself in her voice as she raised it to the Mountains.  He smiled to himself.  She did have the voice of an Elf . . . even more beautiful he thought, if it were possible.

They agreed not to camp until after nightfall, as their going would be much slower in the rugged terrain of the Mountains.  It wasn't until all trace of the sun had faded from the West and the moon shone above the silver peaks that Legolas called out to Laimea.  

Laimea pulled Morsul to a halt, looking over to Legolas in question.  

"We should look for a place to camp," he said, every word followed by a puff of breath in the chilly air.  

"Are you sure we shouldn't ride longer?"  She was cold and stiff from the long day of riding, but she'd been anxious to get back to her home since they'd started out on the journey back.  A heaviness in the air made her nervous and she knew what caused it.  It was the growing evil in Mordor, a warning of the great war to come.

Legolas considered her words for a moment.  "No," he answered finally.  "We should save our strength.  Let's camp."

Laimea nodded.  "Follow me," she said.  "I know a spot near here."  She moved Morsul forward, heading for a rising bluff whose top created a sheltering overhang.  She'd camped there on her way to Helm's Deep.  

They reached it shortly and there she dismounted, stretching gratefully.  Legolas rode up beside her and leapt nimbly off his horse.  Laimea wished she had his kind of endless energy.  

She moved to unsaddle Morsul, tugging her cloak around her shoulders as she did so and trying hard to keep her teeth from chattering.  Now that the sun had gone down the temperature had dropped considerably.  She concentrated on taking care of her horse, tying his lead around a large boulder so he'd have some room to roam.

When she turned back to Legolas she found him already gathering some scant brush for a fire.  She glanced to his horse and found the animal had already been taken care of.  Laimea shook her head and moved to help him pick up some of the sparse grasses and bush that grew between the rocks.  Together they picked quite a pile and set it atop a part of flat ground.  Legolas set it ablaze and Laimea sat down next to it, pulling more jerky from her pack.

Legolas moved past her.  "I will be back," he said, and before she could protest he vanished into the night.  Laimea sighed heavily, pulling her cloak hood over her head.  She chewed on her jerky, watching the thin, crooked strands of yellow mountain grass burn red hot and then fall into ash.  They'd found a few twigs, but the fire wouldn't last long.  She tried to enjoy the warmth while she could, reminding herself she'd traveled this mountain path just days before, and alone.

Laimea looked around the camp at the thought, peering out at the darkness that licked the fringes of the small fire's glow.  Where had Legolas gone, anyway?  She looked up to the stars above and they glittered like stars did only on cold, clear nights.  Morsul snorted and she looked over to him, saw him nosing the rocks.  She got up and untied his rope, leading him over to a patch of grass growing under the shelter of the bluff.  She dropped his lead and let him graze.  

She sighed again, wishing Legolas would hurry up and get back.  She'd only been traveling with the Elf for two days, yet it was hard to imagine not having anyone to talk to, having to sleep alone in the dark without a sentinel to keep watch at all hours of the night.  

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and jumped to her feet, her sword zinging as she drew it high.  Legolas froze, his arms full of small branches, and looked at the sword point hovering before his nose.  He grinned at her, his dimples showing again.  "You move quickly," he said.  "I know now why the Steward of Gondor did not fear you going alone over this terrain.  There is no Orc in Mordor who could take you by surprise."

Laimea let out her breath, lowering her sword and placing it back in its scabbard.  "You should not sneak up on people in the dark," she said, half-smiling.

He grunted in amusement and went to put some of the branches on the fire.  "Amin sinta," I know he said, casting a knowing look to her over his shoulder.

            She sat down again, relieved he was back, and watched him work.  She picked up her jerky again and gnawed at it.  The fire blazed a little higher as Legolas fed it branches.  

He then took something from his pack and came to sit beside her.  She smelled him again as he sat down, an overwhelming aroma of freshly dug earth.  

            He handed her a large leaf folded into a square.  "Mata sina," Eat this he instructed.  "It is far better than that jerky.  You will rest better and it will give you greater strength."

            She looked at the leaf blankly.  He reached over and unwrapped it for her, his fingers brushing over hers.  Chills raced up her arms at the touch and she nearly dropped the food.  Wrapped inside the leaf was a small, square piece of lembas bread.  

            She looked over to him. 

            "I have plenty," he assured her.  "It takes but a little of the Lembas to nourish a body."

            She smiled gratefully.  "Thank you."

            "Think nothing of it."  He unwrapped another leaf and took a bite of his own lembas, then wrapped it up again.  "Are you warm enough?" he asked after chewing.

            "Yes."

"You must tell me if you get too cold."

She shook her head at him.  He gazed at her, his blue eyes shadowed in the flickering fire's light.  His hair reflected the glow of the flames.  "I have been over these Mountains before," she reminded him.  "Alone.  I survived the cold."

"But you should not be uncomfortable if it is not necessary."

"Perhaps not," she admitted.  "Don't worry about me.  I will be fine."

Legolas nodded, relenting.  He stood then and moved to lie out his sleeping blanket.  

Laimea nearly asked him to stay sitting by her but caught herself before she said anything.  Instead she nibbled at her bread, surprised at the taste.  It didn't taste like bread.  She'd eaten some after Legolas had pulled her from the River, but even then it had a different taste than it had now.  She'd eaten only a small portion of it when she found she was full.  She wrapped up the bread and stuck it into her pack, then laid out her own bed pallet.  She wanted to be near Legolas again, but they had been sleeping on opposite sides of the fire and she didn't want to give him any ideas by moving her blanket closer.  Laimea rolled her eyes at herself as she straightened her blanket atop a flat rock.  'I can't believe you're thinking about these things!  This is ridiculous . . . once you reach Gondor he will give his message and then he'll be gone.  You'll never see him again!'

The reflection pained her.  She would hate the day she had to see him go.  No, it was best she stayed away from him.  Then their good-bye would not be so hard.  Laimea sat down upon her blanket resolutely, refusing to look across the fire at the beautiful Elf lying there.

"The hour is late," he said suddenly, causing Laimea to start.  "We should rest.  We'll have to start out early tomorrow."

She glanced at him; saw he lay on his back with his hands under his head, staring up at the cloudless sky.  He'd laid his weapons to the side and relaxed full length on the blanket, his whole lean form stretched out under the stars.  His ankles were crossed and she saw his chest move as he inhaled a deep breath and let it out.

At that moment Laimea knew why her mother disliked the Elves.  They were perfect beings; gifted with extreme senses and unusual speed and stealth.  They were beautiful and immortal . . . everything most Humans were not.  How easy it was to be jealous of them . . . or fall in love with them.  Legolas drew her like a moth to a flame, but she couldn't explain her attraction.  Perhaps because of that same reason . . . he was an Elf; perfect, unattainable, beautiful.  The fact that he showed concern for her well being - not to mention showered her with random compliments – made her feel singled out among all Humans.  She and Legolas were the only two beings in the world when he spoke to her.  She felt foolish sometimes for thinking such things but couldn't help it.  It was **him**.  **He** did it to her.

She pulled her eyes away from him and lied down, keeping her back to him so she wouldn't be tempted to stare at him long into the night.  "Sleep well, Legolas," she said quietly.

"May you dream of only good things," he returned from across the fire.  

She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her cloak over her and drawing it tight around her body.  She relaxed in the warmth of the fire, thinking of her home in Gondor instead of the Elf.

But then his voice came wafting to her over the night, soft and soothing.  He sang gently, his voice rising and falling in a flowing rhythm:

"An Elven-maid there was of old,  
A shining star by day:  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light was on her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
In Lórien the fair._"  
  
_

Laimea opened her eyes, listening.  The Elf's peaceful voice brushed against her senses like a gentle spring breeze, lulling her to sleep.  Why did he have to make it so hard for her to ignore him?  She closed her eyes again and wondered whom he sang about.  She would have to ask him in the morning.  She fell asleep shortly, Legolas' song in her ears.  

She woke with a start sometime later and sat up quickly, realizing a noise had awakened her.  She looked around groggily and found Legolas putting some larger wood on the fire.  She glanced to the sky and saw the moon hung low above the Mountains. 

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He seemed to know she was awake; he didn't even look up to her as he answered.  "Putting more wood on the fire."  The fire caught the new wood he'd just added and flared high.

"You will do no such thing!" Laimea said firmly.

Legolas paused in throwing in another branch, his eyes rising to regard her.  "Why not?" he asked.

"The fire will get too high," Laimea elaborated, although she thought he already knew the dangers of lighting a large fire.  "We might be seen."

Legolas stood, brushing himself off, and went to the edge of their camp.  He halted there a moment, leaning slightly forward as if listening to something.  He scanned the darkness with his eyes and then he came back to the fire.  "There is no danger here for the time," he said.  "We won't be seen."

"How do you know?" Laimea demanded.

"I can feel no evil near," Legolas told her.  "The air is free.  Neither can my eyes detect any sign of the enemy."

Laimea squinted at him dubiously.  "I won't let you endanger us for my sake.  I know you only feed the fire because you think I will be cold if you let it die."

Legolas watched her through the flames, his face well lit now, and Laimea saw the reflection of the dancing fire in his blue eyes.  He had a triangle of bare skin showing beneath the high collar of his shimmering under-tunic, the clasps of which glinted in the light, and she suddenly had an intense desire to go over and unfasten them.  

"It is cold in the Mountains," was his answer.  "Colder than down on the plains."

Laimea blinked at the movement of his lips and pulled her thoughts from the clasps, scolding herself once again for her infatuation.  "I came this way before and I went without fires," she said stubbornly.  "Leave it.  I don't want to risk being seen by anything evil, regardless of what your Elven senses have revealed."

Legolas raised his dark brows, his lips curving into a half smile.  "Very well.  Manka lle merna, if you wish Lady of Gondor."

Laimea gave him an appreciative nod.  "Thank you."  She lied back down and got comfortable.  She'd nearly drifted off to sleep again when she more rustling.  She knew immediately what it was.  She sat up, shooting a glare to the Elf.  "Legolas!" she barked.

He withdrew from the fire, hands in the air, and tried to look innocent.  But under her glare a mischievous smile grew slowly across his face.  "I did nothing," he insisted.

Laimea rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly, and then turned her head away before he could see her smile.  She didn't want to encourage him.  She lied down once more, sighing heavily.  She stayed alert for a while, listening for the Elf to move again, but she heard nothing more.  After a moment she stole a peek over her shoulder and saw he'd stretched out on his pallet again, looking up to the sky.  How she envied the stars that night!

He began to hum, just loud enough for her to hear, and as soon as she relaxed into his melody she fell into deep sleep.

Legolas stood atop the high peak Methadras, looking out at all the lands of Middle-Earth.  The sun set low in the west, casting long shadows, and as the Elf watched he saw a great black army spreading out from Mordor.  The army destroyed everything in its path, burning and killing, leaving behind it a great scar of destruction on what used to be fertile land.

They swept on, and the sun became clouded, the sky grew dark.  The sun disappeared behind a curtain of black smoke, and then suddenly the great Eye of Sauron burst out of the gloom, rushing toward Legolas.  The Elf cried out, throwing his arms over his face, but the Eye stopped before him . . . burning bright and hideous in fiery rage.  The voice boomed from the Eye, nearly sweeping Legolas off the mountain, and he had to fight to keep his footing.  

Heat washed over him in blistering waves; heat like he'd never felt before.  The Eye loomed closer, until the Elf's body glowed with its red light and Legolas thought the giant slitted pupil would consume him.  The mountain shook beneath him and Legolas fell.  The Eye hovered over him, crushing him.  He could not escape its stare . . .

Legolas sat up abruptly, a hand going to his knife.  He blinked, looking around the camp.  The fire had died down to embers but he found it disturbing to look at them – they resembled the glow of the Eye.  The night remained quiet save for his own pounding heart, but Legolas got up anyway.  

The heat of his dream still rushed through his blood and Legolas hoped to rid himself of it in the cold air.  He checked on the horses and then made a perimeter search of their camp.  But he saw nothing; felt nothing immediate.  Only the distant threat pulled at him, torturing him while he tried to rest . . . Legolas looked to the stars and inhaled deeply.  He let the crisp air sting his throat and lungs, swallowing it as if it could wash out his evil dreams.

His heart finally slowed and Legolas paced the camp once more before he was fully satisfied.  He went to Laimea, noticing she had curled into a tight ball to try and keep warm.  He remembered her stern words earlier about not building up the fire and smiled.  The Elf unclasped his cloak and covered her with it.

She shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep.  The moon had sunk below the White Mountains, but even in the starlight Legolas could make out her features.  She slept on her right side, her hands tucked under her head, her braid lying out behind her.

Legolas crouched next to her, watching her sleep.  He reached out and tucked a long stray strand of hair behind her ear.  He had seen a flash of the stubbornness in her that night; glimpsed her strong-willed nature.  He had no doubt Laimea would do something if she set out to do it, whether it killed her or not.

Yet she was not overly proud or pushy, and seemed sensitive to the feelings and needs of others.  She had picked up on his feelings easily.  Had he read hers right?  He remembered her light touch on his arm and the way she'd reached for his hair.  He wanted to feel her touch again . . .   Legolas stood from his crouch and moved over to retrieve his blanket and weapons.  Then he went back to the woman, seeing she was still curled up tightly.

He spread his blanket over her as well, setting his weapons down nearby.  Then he lied down beside her, curving his body around hers, his chest to her back, and gently brushed her hair away from her face.  She sighed again and then, to his delight, snuggled up into him.  But she didn't wake.

Legolas laid close to her the remainder of the night, trying to warm her body with his own.  He briefly wondered if it was appropriate for him to be lying so, but it felt right and so he stayed.  'If you do anything to offend me, Legolas Greenleaf, you'll know', she had said.  He would find out in the morning, he supposed.  But for the moment he enjoyed the closeness of her and hoped she wouldn't be offended.  He looked down at her in the faint silver light of the stars, thinking she should have a song.  He would have to make one up for her - the Human woman who'd captured the heart of an Elf.


	4. The White Mountains

Chapter Four: The White Mountains

****

****

            Laimea woke slowly, becoming aware eventually of a light touch on her face.  It tickled, and she brought a hand up to brush it away, but there was nothing there.  Sighing, she tried to fall back to sleep, but then someone gently shook her shoulder.  

            She blinked, opening her eyes, and saw Legolas sitting beside her, leaning over her.  His hair fell over his shoulders to nearly touch her face and Laimea wondered if it had been tickling her.  She smiled at him, covering a yawn with a hand.  

             He returned her smile and she thought his eyes seemed even brighter that morning than usual.  "How did you wake without an Elf to tell you when the sun comes up?" he asked lightly.

            She grunted, pulling the blanket up under her chin.  "I didn't sleep so deeply alone," she replied.  "I only half-slept, and woke at the slightest noise.  Elves aren't the only ones who can do that you know."

            He merely looked at her; the same soft smile on his face.  "Yes," he finally said quietly.  "I know."

            Laimea squinted at him and then realized she held a blanket under her chin.  She looked to the blanket in confusion, then back to Legolas.  She noticed now that he lied beside her, his body very close to hers, propping himself up on one elbow.  She could feel his body warmth through the blanket along her left side and wondered how long he'd been there.

            Legolas saw her assessing his position and his smile faded.  Worry crept into his gaze as she continued to remain silent.  Laimea didn't see his expression; her mind had already gone to the task of trying to understand why he lay there.

            "Did you stay warm enough last night?" Legolas whispered, searching for some reaction, positive or negative.

            Laimea nodded absently, then turned her eyes to him.  She saw the concern in his face and immediately tensed.  "Why?" she asked cautiously.  "Is something wrong?"

            "No," Legolas assured her quickly.  "Nothing is wrong . . ."

            Laimea watched him closely.  He seemed almost . . . nervous?    She sat up, pushing the blanket onto her lap.  "I see you brought me a blanket.  And . . ." Laimea stared at the garment.  "Your cloak!"  She turned back to Legolas sharply and then nearly drew back as she realized how close he was.  She tried to keep her mind focused on the words even as her eyes wondered over his fair Elven features.  But her tongue wouldn't move and instead Laimea found herself thinking of how soft Legolas' kiss would be.

            She felt his breath on her face; his lips hovered so close . . . she had only to lean in a little and his mouth would be hers.  Laimea's heart thudded loudly in her ears as she hung on a brief moment of indecision.  Her inner being screamed at her to do it, to take the chance, to feel his perfect lips against her own and taste him.  Laimea swallowed in a suddenly dry throat.

            Legolas decided for her.  "I will get up if it pleases you, Laimea," he said softly, startling her from her stupor.  "I should not have come over here."  He started to get up and Laimea reached out in near panic, catching his tunic's sleeve before he could fully stand.  He stopped at the feel of her hand clutching his arm and looked back at her. 

            "Legolas," she asked, her voice gruff, "how long were you lying there?"

            His blue eyes met hers squarely.  "A few hours, no more."

            A wave of dizziness passed through Laimea and she tried to shake it off, having no idea if it originated from her long days of travel or from hearing she'd been lying with an Elf for part of a night.  "Why did you do it, Legolas?" she whispered breathlessly.  Her heart beat so hard Laimea thought it might burst through her ribs.

            "I thought I could help warm you," he answered simply.

            "Is that the only reason?" Laimea blurted suddenly, then nearly gasped at hearing herself ask the question.  She was dying to know but hadn't really meant to ask.  Too late now.  Her fingers had a tight fistful of his green tunic sleeve.  She waited.

            Legolas' eyes flicked over her face and she guessed he was trying to figure out how to best answer the question.

            "The truth, Legolas," she whispered, surprising herself once again by her bravery with words.  "Please." 

            He sank back down to the ground, kneeling next to her blanket on the rock.  He took her hand in his own, and the warmth of his palm sent tingles through her arm.  She felt his flesh against hers and wanted nothing more at the moment than to collapse into his arms, to feel his body against hers, to breathe him in and somehow make him a part of her.  She tried to shove the thoughts away as she waited anxiously for his answer.

            _The truth?_  Legolas thought.  If only he could tell her the truth.  If only he could tell her his skin lit up like fire when she touched him.  If only he could tell her lying next to her last night had awakened feelings in him long buried.  He ached to hold this woman close, to kiss her face, to share himself with her.  He hadn't had such feelings for centuries.  But he knew the dangers of telling her such things so soon.  And perhaps it would be wiser to leave those things unsaid.  He didn't know how she'd react to such a confession, especially coming from an Elf.  She was Human and it was likely nothing would become of his feelings for her.  The thought pained Legolas, but he tried to convince himself it was better that way.  

            He knew of Arwen and Aragorn's love for each other and what many of the other Elves thought about such a relationship.  He'd overheard several conversations regarding the two while in Rivendell, most of them disapproving, only a few supportive.  While such relationships between Men and Elves had been present throughout the Elves' history, the idea had become less and less popular of late.  Legolas knew the risks involved in such a relationship and had often thought Arwen silly in her love for a mortal, even if it was such a man as Aragorn, the future King of Men. It didn't matter who the Human was, in the end the Elf was always left alone.

But now he found himself starting to understand how the Elven princess must feel.  Perhaps an eternity of loneliness was worth the few precious years spent in the presence of one you loved so desperately.  It frightened him somewhat, to realize this one woman in front of him could change his mind about something so easily.  She could get his blood pumping and thoughts soaring with a simple laugh.  No female Elf had ever created such a response in him.  How was it possible this Human could make him feel things his own kind could not?  He didn't understand it and didn't know if he wanted to understand it.  He would have to think more on the matter.  He could not tell Laimea all of how he felt now . . . not yet, no matter how badly he wanted to. 

He brought his wandering thoughts back to the present and found Laimea still watching him, waiting for his answer.

  "Laimea," he began, and hesitated.  He found it suddenly hard to find the words.  She looked at him steadily, her brown eyes wide with worry.  The expression hurt him.  She looked deathly afraid of what he might say.  Legolas chose his words carefully. 

            "Laimea," he tried again, "being around you brings my heart a peace it has not known for centuries.  I enjoy being close to you."  He paused, biting back the flood of heartfelt words that clogged his throat.  "But perhaps I acted selfishly last night.  Perhaps you do not enjoy me being so close to you?"

            He fell silent, waiting for her reaction.  His heart squeezed in his chest.  If he had to lie across the fire again and watch her beauty from there he would, but every part of him wished to be closer to her.

            Laimea's mind raced with Legolas' words_.  '_I enjoy being close to you.  Being around you brings me great peace.'  She swallowed.  'Perhaps you do not enjoy me being so close to you?'

            She stared at him, at his beautiful face, and studied those blue eyes that seemed at once so innocent and yet so wise.  How could such a creature be saying these things to **her**?  Yet he meant what he said, she could tell it from his face, and she knew there was more he wasn't telling her.  His face showed it all.  His whole being radiated tender affection and fierce passion.  She **felt** it, as if they were her own feelings.  But then they could have been.  At the moment Laimea couldn't tell which emotions were hers and which she picked up from the Elf, and she found it slightly unnerving.

            She squeezed his hand in her own.  Laimea knew what she wanted to say, and she knew what she should say.  She wondered at the consequences to either answer and decided she liked what she wanted to say better.  Her mother had always warned her about being impulsive, but at the time Laimea couldn't make herself be otherwise. 

            So what if it was instant gratification for the moment?  So what if it made it harder to leave Legolas once they reached Gondor?  So what if it caused her to dream of his fair face for years afterwards . . . she had a few days left with this Elf, and she couldn't deny the pull that drew her toward him any longer.

            "Legolas," she whispered, afraid her voice would fail her if she spoke any louder.  "I would be most pleased if you would . . ." Laimea faltered, hardly able to believe she was going to say this, "if you would continue to lie your sleeping place beside mine."  There, she had said it.   

Legolas blinked, a smile growing slowly across his face.  His eyes brightened and his cheerful mood returned immediately.  "Very well, then," he said, "it will be done as you wish."  He stood, reaching down to help her stand.  Laimea accepted his help, hanging on to his cloak as she stood.

"We must get to riding now," Legolas said, his eyes turning east.  "The day has already begun and we have not even started out."

Laimea nodded, feeling as if her body weighed much less than it had the day before.  She found herself smiling, thinking already of the coming night when she'd be lying next to Legolas.  "Here is your cloak," she said, offering out the hooded, gray-green garment. 

Legolas shook his head, pushing her outstretched arms back to her chest.  "No.  You wear it today.  It will give you more layers of warmth."

Laimea stared at him, then vigorously shook her head in protest.  "Oh no, Legolas.  I cannot wear this.  It is yours . . . a gift to you.  It is much too precious for me to wear, or even hold.  Here, please."  She thrust it out toward him again, trying to make him take it.

He smiled slyly at her and turned away, leaving her standing there as he went to saddle his horse.  Laimea shot a look to his back and sighed.  She feigned reluctance as she put the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the green leaf-shaped clasp, but inside her heart fluttered.  Dear gods, she was wearing his cloak!  She sucked in a deep breath as the material fell down around her ankles; it smelled of him and was warm despite the light material.  Already the cold morning air wasn't so chilly.

She nearly hopped up and down on her way toward Morsul's saddle, then reprimanded herself for her foolish attitude.  She'd already made it obvious to Legolas she enjoyed his company, but he didn't have to know how **much** she enjoyed it.  She took another deep breath as she reached Morsul, forcing herself to calm down.  She resolutely set about saddling the stallion.

She'd nearly finished when she cast a glance over her shoulder to Legolas.  He moved about quickly, settling his weapons on his back and buckling the quiver's straps around his chest.  He sheathed the two long knives and then set about neatly rolling up the bed blankets.  He stood and turned toward her; Laimea caught herself staring and blinked.  But she didn't turn away.  She smiled.

He smiled back at her and picked up the blankets, bounding toward her from rock to rock until he stood next to her.  He handed her blanket to her.  "Your blanket, my Lady," he said, tipping his head a little.

Laimea shook her head, taking the blanket from him and tying it to the back of her saddle. "Legolas," she complained, "you must stop calling me that."

"Why?"

The question took her off guard and Laimea looked up to meet his eyes.  He managed to look completely innocent.  She stood there a second, unable to speak.  She cleared her throat suddenly, turning back to face the saddle, but her hands remained motionless on the girth.  "Because," she said slowly, struggling to remember what she'd been about to say.  "Because I've got no noble blood in me," she finally spit out, annoyed at the way her thoughts strayed whenever the Elf looked at her.  "And if you insist I call you Legolas than you must call me Laimea.  Unless you want me to call you Master Elf from now on?"  She turned to look over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow.

He grinned at her, his eyes dancing, and shook his head.  

She squinted at him.  "What?" she asked cautiously.  "What is it?"  He was laughing at something, and Laimea had the sinking feeling she was the focus of his amusement.

"Perhaps you should keep your eyes on the saddle when putting it on your horse?" he suggested, gesturing to Morsul.

Laimea turned around and saw she had been trying to fasten the girth through the stirrup instead of through the girth loop.  She quickly corrected her mistake, her face immediately blooming bright red.  She tried to hide it as her fingers fumbled to tighten the strap.  She refused to look at Legolas but could feel him laughing over her shoulder.  She wished abruptly he hadn't been standing so close.  She turned away from him once Morsul was ready and led the horse over to her pack, choosing to ignore the Elf.  But he followed her anyway and she noticed with dismay his horse stood ready only a short distance away.

Laimea tied her pack to her saddle, her face still very hot, and mounted in a huff.  Legolas went to his gelding and swung aboard, and when Laimea risked a glance to him she saw he still sported a dimpled smile.  His blue eyes flicked toward her once and she quickly looked away, raising her chin and looking straight ahead.  She clucked to Morsul and moved the stallion to the front, too embarrassed to face the Elf for the moment.  

"Come on," she muttered.  "We're late."

The morning dawned dim and gray, and a fog hugged the ground, making the way ahead hard to see.  The mists shrouded up along the sides of the mountains and cast the day in gloomy shade.

Laimea did not talk to Legolas, and her humiliation soon died away.  But she continued to lead; the fog swirled up around Morsul's legs.  They traveled in silence for a long while, watching the Sun rise behind its curtain of clouds.  The day warmed slightly, but the fog still clung to the mountainsides in great swaths of white.

The Sun had started its decent when Legolas suddenly rode up beside Laimea and motioned her to stop.  She did so, raising her eyebrows in question.  He moved the gelding close to Morsul.  

"There is evil near," he warned softly.  "I will go and scout ahead.  Take my horse and stay on the path.  I will return shortly."

He dismounted easily, handing the gelding's reins to her.  Laimea frowned, watching him take the long bow off his shoulder.  "Legolas," she half whispered in protest, "you can't go out there by yourself!  What if –"

"Dina!" Be silent! he hissed, and Laimea drew back at the command.

She felt brief anger at his tone, but the look on his face replaced her anger with worry.  Her hand went to her sword haft anxiously.  Legolas stood there a moment, bow in hand, his eyes hooded in concentration.  He seemed to be listening.  She waited.

Eventually he looked up to her, his expression serious.  He held a finger to his lips and then pointed ahead down the trail they'd picked out among the increasingly rocky landscape.  He stepped up alongside Morsul, his face softening for a second.  He laid a hand on her knee and managed a small smile.  "Do not worry yourself, Laimea," he whispered.  "Go ahead.  I will return."

Before she could reply he moved off, sprinting silently away from her, leaving only a swirling fog behind him.  

Laimea sighed and reluctantly nudged Morsul forward, leading the gelding.  She tried not to worry, but the unease in her stomach urged her to keep one hand on her sword.

Legolas trotted smoothly over the rough terrain, making hardly a noise over the rocks.  He went steadily through the fog, moving ahead on the path Laimea would be taking after him.  He jogged for a little over an hour without seeing or hearing anything.  But just as dusk had started to fall into the mountain crevices his Elven ears caught noises, and a sour smell wafted on the cool air.  Legolas slowed and stopped, listening.

Orcish words echoed between the rising mountain walls and Legolas crouched, slinking forward cautiously.  He gripped his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver.  He hadn't gone far before the glow of a fire turned the fog ahead orange.  Night crept into the sky, bringing a deep darkness without moon or stars.  Legolas paid no attention to the waning light.  He climbed quickly onto a stepped hill, moving closer to the Orcs.  He could see them below him now, vague through the fog.  It hovered over the black bodies as they sat around a rather large fire.  Legolas swiftly counted fifteen of them and frowned.  Only five were Urak-hai, but it would still be fifteen swords against two if these Orcs found him and the woman.

He slipped the arrow back into his quiver and withdrew quietly from the slab of rock.  He wouldn't be able to shoot them all down before they reached him, it was safer to retreat and go around.  Legolas went back the way he'd come, glancing at the sky.  Only a dim streak in the west still remained light.  He quickened his pace, suddenly very eager to get back to Laimea.  He needed to see her again, to assure himself she was safe, and he wanted very much to lie close to her again.

He ran over uneven ground at good pace for a while, but gradually all light left the sky and the land around him became very dark.  Legolas slowed his walk considerably; even with his Elven senses the path ahead became difficult to see or feel.  Nearly two hours had passed before he saw movement in the dark some ways in front of him.

He stopped abruptly, squinting, straining his eyes.  He made out the dim shapes of two horses and one Human.  Legolas exhaled a quiet breath of relief at the sight of Laimea.  She was safe, well hidden in the dark of the moonless night, for she hadn't made a fire.  He went forward carefully.  She had her back to him and he didn't want to scare her.  She drew her sword quick enough to be dangerous if taken by surprise.  The thought brought a smile to Legolas' lips.  He appreciated the fact that if it were ever necessary, Laimea would be able to help him in a fight.  

Laimea sat huddled on a less rocky part of ground, wrapped in two cloaks and a blanket and trying not to shiver.  The air was bitter cold and smelled of snow.  She sighed heavily, looking out into the darkness around her anxiously.  Her sword lay bare across her lap, the haft gripped tightly in one very cold hand.  Her stomach twisted in worry and hunger.  But Laimea could not bring herself to eat, or do anything else, for that matter.  

She'd left the horses saddled, in case she had to mount up and leave in a hurry.  Legolas had not returned, and she couldn't possibly imagine where he could be - or how he'd find his way back with no light.  Laimea chewed her lower lip, drawing the Elven cloak tighter around herself.  It still smelled of Legolas and she squeezed her eyes shut, picturing the Elf in her mind.  'He'll come', she tried to convince herself.  'He'll find his way back to you.  Stop worrying_'.  _But Laimea couldn't help it.  If he never came back . . . Laimea stood abruptly, unable to bear the thought.  She began to pace back and forth.

'You should never have let him go off by himself.  At least if you had gone with him you would know whether he was dead or alive!'

Morsul's snort snapped Laimea from her worries and she stiffened, bringing the sword up in front of her.  She froze where she stood and hardly dared to breathe, listening intently.  She heard nothing.  She glanced to her stallion, his black coat barely visible in the night, and saw the horse looked to the east, his ears pricked forward.

Laimea followed the direction of his interest, her eyes searching vainly for some movement.  "Legolas?" she whispered.  "Is that you?"  Laimea's heart thudded hard in her chest, making it hard to hear, but she forced herself to remain still.  She waited.

"Laimea?" came a soft whisper.

Laimea jumped around to face the voice, stumbling backwards and barely swallowing her cry of surprise.  

"It's me," the quiet voice reassured her calmly, and she recognized Legolas' voice immediately.  

Laimea righted herself, lowering her sword, and swallowed.  Her pulse raced with adrenaline.  She took a deep breath before she spoke, her eyes still searching the blackness for some visible sign of the Elf.  "You!" she exclaimed accusingly.  "What took you so long?  I thought for sure you'd gotten into some trouble, or gotten hurt . . . do you have any idea how worried I was about you?"

She briefly heard light footsteps and caught a glimmer of movement.  Then she could feel him standing in front of her, though she couldn't visibly see him.  She looked up to where she thought his face should be.

"Uuma dela ikotane sai," Do not worry so much Legolas whispered to her, his fingers brushing her cheek gently.  "Amin valina lle naa varna.  Tanya naa ilya tanya dela amin." I am happy you are safe.  That is all that worries me. 

Laimea turned her face into his palm instinctively, clasping her hand over his and pressing the warmth of his skin to her cheek.  His hand was hot against her wind-numbed face and she relished the touch.  But he suddenly took his hand away from her face, moving it instead to hold her hand, and pulled her forward.

Laimea stumbled over the rocks but Legolas caught her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

"You are so cold," he whispered.

Laimea swallowed hard, unable to reply.  He held her against him, his arms comfortingly around her waist, and already she could feel the warmth of his body soaking through into her own chilled limbs.  She relaxed, leaning into him, and closed her eyes.  She felt the rise and fall of his chest, heard his quiet breathing.  The steady beat of his heart calmed her nerves.  She caressed the softness of his hair under one of her hands and rested her forehead on his shoulder.

The two of them stood there in silence a long while, wrapped in the soothing security of the quiet, black night.  At that moment, everything in Middle-Earth seemed right.  The oncoming war had no significance, and the One Ring wielded no power.  The dark of night was no longer terrifying; Sauron and all his evil no longer existed.  Only she and Legolas continued, standing alone on the shoulders of the White Mountains, and Laimea felt every inch of her body against his.  Her skin came alive at the feel of him, even through her many layers of clothes.  She stood still in his arms, breathing heavily into his shoulder, and wished the moment would never end.  

Foolish wishes. 

"Lle naa urnu sii'?" Are you warm now? Legolas asked quietly, breaking the stillness that had fallen over them.

Laimea sighed, tempted to tell him no so she could continue to stand there with him.  But there were things to be done, and questions to be asked.  "Yes," she mumbled into the material of his tunic.  Lifting her face, she turned it upward to try and look at him.  "I didn't build a fire.  I didn't know if . . ." 'if you would return.'  She couldn't finish the thought out loud.

"It's good you didn't," Legolas told her.  "It is too dangerous to build a fire tonight.  We will have to go without light."

"Or warmth," Laimea supplied, knowing that as soon as Legolas left her side the chill air would cut through to her bones again.

But at her words the Elf tightened his arms around her.  "Amin nauva lle urna sina dome," I will be your warmth tonight Legolas said softly into her ear.

Laimea smiled in the darkness, the feel of his breath on her skin made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.  She never thought she'd be so glad for cold weather.  "Oh good," she murmured jokingly, "I thought I'd have to go sleep with the horses."

He grunted knowingly at her remark, but his mind drifted elsewhere.  She felt worry creep into her stomach again and wished she could see his expression.  Her fingers unconsciously stroked the lock of hair under her fingertips.  "What did you see out there, Legolas?" she finally asked.

Legolas shifted against her and his hands went to her shoulders.  He pulled away from her and Laimea nearly gasped aloud at the loss of contact; the free air seemed even colder after being against such a warm body.  She felt his gaze on her and waited tensely.  

"I saw a party of Orcs," he said slowly, the words twisting from his mouth in disgust. "Too small a group to be anything more than a scouting party, but dangerous none the less. I don't think they know of us yet. But we must be careful." 

Laimea swallowed hard, feeling her heartbeat quicken. "Could you tell where they were going?"

Legolas gave her shoulders a squeeze. "It is hard to guess their path, but they are faced south and east. They will probably pass by Minas Tirith, perhaps to scout the city's defenses for their master. Other than that I could not guess." 

Laimea gripped Legolas' arm, her other hand holding her sword. "How many are there?" Her voice took on an eager tone. "Could we kill them?" 

"They number fifteen," Legolas answered heavily.  "And five are Urak-hai. We would be greatly outnumbered." 

"Urak-hai?" Laimea repeated. "What are they?"

A shudder ran through the Elf and Laimea's insides twisted. Anything horrible enough to make an Elf shudder had to be evil indeed. 

"Sen naa iluve 'ksh e' erquenat!" They are everything evil in one body! he hissed, and the intensity of his words made Laimea draw back. "They are neither evil men nor twisted Orcs, but both," he continued. "They fear not the light of day or the deepest darkness of night. They stop at nothing, and their hate drives them to destroy all living things." 

Laimea shut her open mouth, trying to swallow in a dry throat. Near panic welled up in her chest. If there were many of these Urak-hai, and they were as terrible as they sounded, who stood a chance against them? 

She opened her mouth to speak but found she had no voice. Terrible images of a wasted Gondor flashed through her mind. Legolas' soft voice brought her back from such thoughts. 

"Amin hiraetha, I'm sorry Laimea," he whispered suddenly, taking her in his arms again and pulling her close. "I don't mean to frighten you. They still die the same as the others. It is my hope the daylight will bring me a means of ending them."

Laimea looked up to him. "But you said they would outnumber us."

"Only with their swords," he answered. "I plan on using my arrows. If the light is good, I can kill them all before they cover much ground. The Riders of Rohan did as much to the Orcs carrying Merry and Pippin."

Laimea frowned. "Merry and Pippin?" she asked curiously.

Legolas shook his head. "I will tell you another time. It is a long story. We must rest now, while we can, and start out early tomorrow." 

Laimea nodded. "The horses," she said, "they need to be unsaddled." 

"Then we will do it," Legolas said, taking her hand. She finally sheathed her sword and the Elf led her slowly across the flat black expanse of their camp. They unsaddled more by feel than by sight. Laimea took off her sleeping blankets once Morsul had been taken care of and reached out blindly, searching for Legolas. 

He caught her flailing hand gently. "Can you see at all?" he asked. 

Laimea squinted, peering out into the night, trying very hard to get her eyes to focus. "Mmm," she murmured finally, "only a few outlines." She turned toward his voice. "Can you see?" 

"A little better than you, that's all." He gripped her hand. "But I see a good flat spot for sleeping. This way." He led her through the darkness once again, stopping not far from the horses. "Is this suitable for you?" he asked. 

Laimea knelt, feeling the ground as she lay out her blanket. It seemed to be a bare patch of dirt. She smiled up at him. "Ah, dirt! Always better than rock I guess." 

He chuckled at her sense of humor and crouched down beside her, laying out his own bedding. A cold breeze blew between the steep mountainsides and Laimea wrapped herself in her cloaks, silently cursing the lack of fire. But perhaps the wind would convince Legolas to lie even closer. She smiled impishly at the thought and lay down.          

He laid down behind her, throwing another blanket over her. She looked over her shoulder to him. "Won't you be cold?" 

"No. The cold doesn't bother me." 

Laimea sighed. "Oh to be an Elf," she mumbled. 

"What?" Legolas propped himself up on his elbow, looking down to her. 

Laimea startled, surprised he'd heard her. "Nothing," she said. "Just talking to myself." 

He didn't seem satisfied with her answer but lied back down, curling himself around her as he had the night before. His arm came over her side and wrapped around her, holding her tight.              

Laimea's blood quickened at the closeness of him, at the feel of his body against her back. Her heartbeat echoed in her temples and she wondered if she should have fallen asleep before she let him lay so close. She swallowed.               

"Lle naa urnu faarea?" Are you warm enough? he asked. 

Laimea took a deep breath, steadying her voice before she answered. "Uma." Yes. Then she suddenly thought of something and turned her head to look at him again.      

"Legolas?"

"Yes?" 

"What if the Orcs come during the night?"         

"I will keep watch." 

"But you are lying down . . ." 

Legolas put a finger to her lips and Laimea's breath stilled in her lungs. She wished at least for starlight, any kind of light, so that she could see his face above her.    "Uuma dela ikotane sai," Do not worry so much, he whispered gently, repeating his earlier words. His fingers brushed her face and then vanished again.                    

"Rest," he said. "I will watch for them." 

Laimea nodded, knowing she couldn't protest if she wanted to, and rolled over again. She shut her eyes and relaxed into the warmth of the body holding her. The quiet lyrics of a song entered her senses and she realized it was the same song Legolas had been singing the night before. She meant to ask him about it, but she couldn't bring herself to speak.  She slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Legolas stopped singing and watched the woman next to him sleep.  He singled out a stray lock of her hair and ran it through his fingers.  She looked so peaceful.  He glanced up to the sky briefly; it was still devoid of light and the heavy clouds showed no signs of clearing.  He thought of the dark night at Helm's Deep, his fingers curling around the soft hair in his hand.  He wished things were different, that perhaps he and Laimea had met at a different time, when things were not so evil.  He would have loved to be able to spend many such nights alone with her in the forests of the Elves.

He sighed, turning back to her sleeping form, and let her hair fall back to her shoulder.  'Oh to be an Elf.'  The words she hadn't thought he'd heard floated through his mind, haunting him.  He thought of all the Elves that had fallen over the centuries, most killed in wars - wars like the one brewing behind the black and jagged gates of Mordor. He thought of Aragorn, and Gimli, and the Hobbits, and the woman next to him, and gritted his teeth.  If he didn't lose his own life in this war, he would go on to see the deaths of them all.

Legolas leaned over the woman, tracing his fingers along the edge of her jaw and brushing the hair from her neck.  "Aiya, naa firimar," Oh, to be a mortal, he whispered sadly into her ear.

He waited for the night to end.

Laimea opened her eyes at the sound of her name, blinking.  The urgent voice called her name again and she sat up immediately, groping for her sword.  Legolas stood not far in front of her, silhouetted against the pale gray of dawn rising behind the Mountains.  He had an arrow fitted to his bow and glanced to her as she sat up.  "They found us," he said.

She whipped around to look behind her, feeling cold fear settle in her gut, and saw the creatures running up the narrow path from the east, emerging from the early morning gloom as if they formed from the darkness itself.  A green-feathered arrow whizzed over her head and stuck in the chest of the lead Orc.  The twisted creature screamed and fell, writhing on the rocks.  The others stepped over it, their pace never slowing.  She leapt to her feet and brought her sword to bear, tingling with adrenaline.

Legolas sent another arrow over her shoulder and Laimea ducked away instinctively, cutting off her surprised cry.  She spun to glare at the Elf, but one look at his face and the way he released his arrows assured her his aim was flawless.  She faced the Orcs again, only flinching this time as a third arrow flew past her ear.  But she would only be in the way here. She backed toward Legolas, her eyes never leaving the dark shapes bearing down on the camp.  She moved around the Elf, coming to a stop behind him, and watched over his shoulder.

They advanced quickly, shouting foreign words in a harsh language.  She shuddered at the sound, her palm sweaty on the sword haft.  Legolas fired three more arrows, each one hitting their target.  Ten left now; one had two arrows sticking from its chest but still staggered forward.  Legolas sent another arrow into the injured one's forehead and it swayed, a dazed look on its face as the blood ran down between its eyes.  It fell forward and landed face first, unmoving.

Laimea turned her head, refusing the urge to gag.  She swallowed hard and then faced the enemy again, stepping backwards as Legolas did.  He retreated steadily, trying to keep a fair distance between him and the reach of the Orc swords.  Laimea's stomach tightened as the creatures charged around a boulder into clear sight.  Five of the eight left she immediately recognized as Urak-hai.  She swallowed down the bile in her throat, taking a few more steps back.

Hideous creatures, the Urak-hai loomed above the other Orcs, reaching at least six feet.  Their bodies were enormous and well muscled, and her insides turned at the malice glittering in their yellow eyes.  One looked right at her, grinning madly and showing yellow fangs.  "I knew I smelled Elf," he jeered in a growl, his breath fogging on the cold air, "but we get a woman too!"  He waved a massive arm forward, motioning the remainder of his party onward.  "Kill the Elf!" the Urak-hai shouted.  "Then I give you the woman!"

The Orcs shrieked and growled with renewed enthusiasm at his words and increased their speed, mouths open greedily as if hungry for fresh blood.  Laimea stumbled backwards, nearly dropping her sword.  She felt suddenly light-headed.  

"Leg – Legolas," she forced through a constricted throat, "they're going to – to kill us!"  She could do nothing but stare at the lead Urak-hai and his hideous grin.

The Elf's fierce blue gaze turned back to her briefly.  "N'uma, No, Laimea!" he shouted, forcing her eyes back to him.  He shot another arrow, felling a smaller Orc.  "There are but seven left now.  We will defeat them!"

Laimea looked a long time into his hard eyes, and then nodded slowly.  She brought her sword up again, shrugging the stiffness from her shoulders.  She felt only slightly more confident, but Legolas was with her. 

The Orcs were getting too close now.  One of the Urak-hai readied his own bow and arrows.  Liquid fear clutched Laimea's chest and she called out a warning to Legolas.  He switched his aim in a second and pierced his arrow through the Urak-hai's throat.  But it only stalled the creature.  Laimea watched in horror as the being raised the bow again.  She sprinted to where Morsul danced nervously at the end of his lead and untied the rope, swinging up onto the stallion's broad back without thinking.  She hefted her sword in one hand and gripped the long black mane in the other, then kicked the horse's sides.

The stallion reared and sprang forward, charging fearlessly for the remaining Urak-hai.  Laimea gritted her teeth and ran for the one with the bow.  The creature saw her coming and swung the arrow around toward the horse.  He didn't have time to fire.  Another Mirkwood arrow lodged in his chest and the stallion rushed by, the Elven sword coming down and neatly lopping off his head.

The sight slowed the remaining five only for a second, and then they went after Legolas like rabid beasts.  The Elf abandoned his bow and reached back for his knives.  The white-hafted weapons gleamed dully in the clouded light of morning.

Laimea wheeled Morsul around with a touch of her leg and charged back toward the battle.  The five left converged on Legolas; his knives flashed swiftly among their own dark blades.  One Urak-hai fell, his throat slit, spilling dark blood onto the rocks.  But it was still four against one. 

They pinned Legolas against a sheer rising of gray rock and Laimea's heart wedged in her throat.  He had no escape.  She gripped her sword and rode straight for them.  Morsul skidded to a halt just before plowing into the struggling group, and Laimea brought her sword down, hacking blindly at Orc bodies.  She slashed the back of one Urak-hai and stabbed the single remaining small Orc.

The Urak-hai roared, spinning around with sword held high.  Morsul shied away and the tip of the hooked blade only nicked Laimea's thigh instead of severing it.  The horse balked and reared again, striking out with his front feet and knocking the Urak-hai sprawling.  Legolas finished the creature with his knives and spun around to meet the sword of another.  Laimea sliced off another gruesome head, leaving only one Urak-hai to face them both. 

The creature realized his plight and jumped away from the Elven knives.  He turned suddenly to the horse, his clawed hand grabbing at Laimea's leg and yanking hard.  She cried out as she fell and landed hard, grimacing as the sharp edge of a rock dug into her elbow.  She raised her sword clumsily, blocking the Orc blade sailing for her head.  The force of the impact jarred her arms, rattling her teeth.

The Urak-hai's free hand latched around her throat, the thick fingers throttling her mercilessly.  Laimea gagged, bringing her sword haft around to bash the Urak-hai over the head with it.  But he didn't loosen his grip.  She saw the creature's ugly face vaguely against the morning sky; fangs bared, eyes glowing with hate.  She groped wildly at the meaty knuckles but the creature was too strong.  

Two arrows thumped solidly into the Urak-hai's ribcage.  He growled, leaning over Laimea, and the stench of rot was overpowering.  Still the fingers did not loosen.  Black spots burst in front of her eyes and Laimea hit at the Urak-hai desperately.  She heard a shout somewhere far off, and then the huge creature's body jerked and fell sideways.     

Legolas eclipsed her view, his eyes sweeping over her body worriedly.  He reached down and pulled the dead hand off her neck.  Laimea sobbed in relief, the sword dropping from her trembling hand.  Legolas knelt next to her and scooped her up in his arms, holding her against him.  She quivered in his embrace, the feeling of the hand on her neck still vivid.  She looked up to him, blinking through the tears, and saw a dark shape behind him.  Her eyes widened as she realized it was the Orc she had stabbed, and it was still alive.

The creature hobbled forward, raising its sword, and grinned, black blood dribbling from its mouth.  Laimea reached over Legolas' shoulder and drew a white-hafted knife from the sheath.  The blade was already dark with Orc blood.  Legolas began to turn around but Laimea hurled the knife outwards with no hesitation. The knife stuck in the Orc's throat and it gurgled, dropping the sword harmlessly to the rocks.  The Orc staggered and fell over backwards.  It didn't move again.

Laimea turned back to Legolas, her hand clasping his tunic.  He drew his arms around her again and met her terrified gaze, his enraged expression melting away to one of concern.  He tipped her chin up to look at her neck, and touched her skin gently where the clawed fingers had bruised it.  "Are you all right?" he asked in a whisper.

            Laimea nodded wordlessly, her eyes straying from his face to the bodies littering the rocks.  A stiff wind blew suddenly through the mountains, making the dry yellow grass sway.  The stench of Orcs filled her nose and she coughed, burying her face against the Elf's chest and trying instead to inhale his scent.   

            He hugged her.  "I told you we would defeat them," he said quietly.  A short pause, then,  "You have very good aim with a knife."

            She looked up to him; saw him smiling down at her softly, his eyes shining.  So different from the deadly gaze he'd focused on the Orcs just moments ago.  She couldn't help but smile back, wiping at the tears on her cheeks.  "Well," she admitted, "I never wanted to feel helpless.  I tried to learn all the self defense I could."  She looked around at the dead Urak-hai and the sword lying beside her, shaking her head.  "I guess it didn't do me much good," she confessed sullenly.

            Legolas tucked a strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear, his blue stare locking her eyes with his.  His hand cupped her face, his thumb absently caressing her cheek.  "Oh no, Laimea," he insisted softly, "you fought well.  I could not have survived this battle without your help."

            Laimea looked back down to her hands, sighing heavily.  "Maybe," she relented, though she didn't feel she'd been of much help.  Legolas took her chin in his hand and lifted her face to look at him again.  

            "Do not doubt yourself," he told her, and Laimea saw a shadow pass behind his eyes.  She wondered at it, but did not ask.  "You did well."  A frown crossed his face and he glanced over her neck again.  "Are you sure you're all right?"

            She smiled, lifting her hand to take his and lowering it from her face.  "Yes," she said firmly.  "Just a few cuts."  She lifted her elbow and found it red with blood.  Legolas grimaced at the sight of it, though it wasn't a serious wound, and he set about immediately wrapping it.  He next wrapped the cut on her thigh, which was deeper but not critical, and then helped her stand.

            "We must get to Gondor quickly," she said, brushing off the Elven cloak and sheathing her sword.  "The Steward must be warned."

            Legolas nodded in agreement but seemed to be paying more attention to her condition than her words.  Laimea tried to ignore the shooting pain in her leg as she limped over to where Morsul waited timidly.  

Legolas watched her, making sure she would be okay, and then went to the Orc and pulled his knife from the gray-skinned throat.  He went to a small patch of grass and wiped the blade off as best he could, then sheathed it.  The Elf also retrieved his bow from where he'd hastily thrown it aside and examined the length of it carefully before putting it over his shoulder.

            He glanced to Laimea.  She talked softly to the frightened stallion, trying to calm him.  But she seemed to be fine.  Legolas went to his gelding and held out a palm to the horse's nose.  The gelding snuffled his hand and nickered.  Legolas started to saddle up and thought about the woman.  He'd nearly lost her - again.  He'd proven to be lacking in his attempt to protect her.  But then, she was still alive.  He tossed a look over his shoulder again and saw Laimea still trying to catch her horse.

            He didn't interfere.  He knew he could calm the stallion in seconds, but doing so would severely injure Laimea's pride.  He would wait until she had the stallion under control.  It was for the same reason he now rode with a saddle and bridle.  Riding without one as he normally did would be seen as showing off to her, and while he'd had a sense of that at the beginning of their journey, he knew it without a doubt now.  

            He thought of riding bareback with no bridle and grinned, seeing the look on Laimea's face all too clearly.  

The woman's voice echoed through the empty morning and Legolas spun around, but he relaxed when he saw she only spoke to her horse.  Morsul seemed to finally settle down, and Legolas went to help Laimea saddle him.  When all their things had been packed and readied the two travelers mounted their horses and headed once again to the southeast.

They rode closely side-by-side now, and Laimea drew her cloak hood up over her head to shield her face from the wind.  Legolas faced the cold unflinching, and the breeze blew his hair back over his shoulders.  He stayed very alert, every sense straining, his eyes sweeping back and forth across the path ahead repeatedly.

Laimea too remained on edge, and Morsul proved to be extra jumpy as well, picking up the restlessness of his rider.  But they continued on, not speaking for fear of being overheard.  They left the Orc bodies and the smell of decay behind in the cloudy morning, and the Sun rose slowly over the gray mountain peaks.


	5. The Messengers

**Chapter Five: The Messengers**

            Laimea stumbled over sharp rocks hidden under ankle deep snow, pulling her cloak hood farther over her head.  She muttered a curse, glancing back to Morsul.  The stallion picked his way after her, nearly at the end of his reins.  She kept on, her free arm waving in the air for balance.

She winced as pain shot from the wound on her thigh.  It had been two days since the Orc attack and it still pained her.  Legolas had used his Elvish medicine but it healed slowly.  She tripped again and fell, bare hands plunging into the snow.  Laimea gritted her teeth and struggled to her feet again, wiping the wetness from her numb fingers on her pants.

            Legolas appeared beside her suddenly, steadying her with a firm grip on her shoulder.  "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly.

            Laimea nodded, pushing her hair from her face resolutely.  She sniffed.  "Yes, I'm fine," she answered breathlessly.  They had been climbing upward all day and she was beginning to tire.

            "We can go back," Legolas suggested cautiously.  "We still have time to go around the other way."

            Laimea shook her head, wrapping her cold hands in the folds of her cloak.  "No.  We can make it.  Besides this way is faster."

            He did not reply and Laimea looked up to him.  The wind blew strands of blonde hair across his face and his cloak flapped against his legs.  His unblinking gaze matched the hard gray of the sky and clearly showed his disapproval of their current path.

            She smiled weakly, rebuking herself for not taking his advice yesterday.  The afternoon before they'd come across the most difficult part of the journey; a place where the so-called path they'd been following ended and rougher wilds of the White Mountains begun.  A sheer cliff drop off had blocked their path, and Legolas had suggested going northward down the mountain a few miles to go around the barrier. 

            Laimea had insisted on the southward way, the way leading farther into the mountains, more difficult but admittedly the faster route.  After a lengthy debate Legolas had finally relented to her choice of path, relying on the fact Laimea had traveled these mountains before and he had not.  Yet the way had proven to be even more difficult than she'd thought, and she now wished she would have gone his way.  His expression told her he thought along the same lines.

            "It's too late to go back," she said, although she knew it wasn't necessarily true.  "We must get to Gondor quickly."

            "It's not worth risking yourself," Legolas said firmly.  "You're tired.  We should rest."

            "No.  I'm fine."  Laimea gripped Morsul's reins tightly in her hand and went forward again, staggering up the steep slope.  Snow fell lazily from the cloud-laden sky in large flakes, settling on her shoulders and eyelashes.  She blinked them away, trying to forget her numb toes and fingers, her stinging cheeks, and her runny nose.  She used the thought of the Uruk-hai to fuel her weary legs, forcing herself to continue forward.  Her left thigh throbbed with a dull pain, but Laimea refused to acknowledge that either.

            She pressed onward.  Legolas followed her silently.

            They worked their way up the mountain until long after darkness fell, using the reflected moonlight from the clouds and snow to light their way.  They walked, leading the horses, until Laimea could walk no more.  She sat down heavily in the snow about midnight, panting for air through a burning throat.  They had reached the top of the upward slope, and tomorrow they would go down.

            Laimea lay back in the soft snow, ignoring its cold as it seeped through her cloak.  She closed her eyes, letting her tired muscles relax.  She fell asleep with Morsul's reins still in her hand.

            She woke somewhat when Legolas moved her, but only enough to know he carried her to some dry spot and covered her with a blanket.  Then she lost consciousness again.  

            She startled awake the next morning; vaguely remembered falling asleep in the snow the night before and looked around groggily.  Legolas lied next to her on his blanket and opened his eyes at her movement.  "Quel amrun," Good morning, he greeted.  "I see you have beaten the sun."  He smiled slyly.

            Laimea smiled back at him, stretching.  "Quel amrun, Legolas," she returned, then looked out from beneath the small rock overhang they'd slept under.  Only the faintest hint of dawn touched the dark eastern sky.  Several inches of fresh snow covered everything, giving the mountain slopes a smooth and peaceful appearance.  She turned back to Legolas.  "I'm sorry about last night," she said.  "I didn't mean to leave you to take care of the horses by yourself."

            The Elf shrugged.  "I managed.  You needed rest.  We should have stopped earlier."

            "But we made good time," Laimea reminded him.  "We should be out of the Mountains within three days."

            Legolas sat up, ducking his head so as not to hit it on the rock above.  "And we should make good time today, being as early as it is.  How is your leg faring?"

            Laimea put a hand to her thigh, running her fingers over the thin bandage.  "It's a little stiff, but it'll be fine."

            "You're certain?"

            Laimea nodded.  "As you once said to me, uuma dela ikotane sai." do not worry so much.   She sent him a knowing smile.

            Legolas snorted, shaking his head at her, and turned to get his weapons.  "You intrigue me, Laimea of Gondor," he told her, moving out from under the overhang.  Laimea followed him with her eyes, feeling a blush grow hot on her cheeks.  She pulled her cloak hood up to try and hide it.

            "Is that a compliment?" she asked lightly.

            Legolas buckled on his quiver and held a hand down to help her stand.  "Coming from an Elf you mean?" he asked, grinning to show his teeth.  "Yes, my Lady, it is."

            Laimea rolled her eyes at his use of that proper title again and accepted his hand up.  She hardly noticed the pain in her leg as she trudged through nearly knee-deep snow to Morsul.  She would gladly take this journey three times over if it meant waking up to Legolas' face every morning.  She smiled at the thought.

            They ate a simple breakfast of lembas and jerky, packed up their things, and took up the leads of the horses once again.  They started the descent down the long mountain hill just as the clouds of morning parted, opening shafts of soft golden sunlight to glint off the snow in millions of tiny rainbows.

            They spent most of the sixth day of their journey slipping and sliding down the slope, occasionally tripping over hidden rocks or skirting around half snow-covered boulders.  The going was slow with the horses, as the unstable footing made them reluctant to proceed after their masters.  Several times Laimea fell in her efforts to coax Morsul down another few steps, and she would have to hurry to her feet again for fear of the horse accidentally falling on her.

            Legolas didn't have so much trouble with his horse, as the gelding was quite a bit smaller and calmer than the stallion.  The Elf himself walked on top of the snow, making hardly an imprint in its surface.  He watched Laimea with sympathy in his eyes, but she refused to let him help her in any way.  He finally moved to walk in front of her, so that at least his gelding could break a path through the heavy snow.  She didn't object to his trail blazing, but struggled onward in his tracks.

            By early evening they reached the bottom; the sharp incline of ground dipped out into an uneven, snow-covered plain surrounded on all sides by the rising cliffs of the Mountains.  Legolas stopped there, breathing deep, thinking that the way down might have been harder than the way up.  He looked back and saw Laimea stumble down the remainder of the incline, Morsul tumbling after. 

            The woman staggered to his side and leaned over, hands on her knees, gasping for air.  She was soaked nearly head to foot from falling in the snow so much, and her cheeks glowed bright red with the cold.  Several wet strands of hair hung down by her face and she swiped at them angrily.

            He stepped towards her but then she straightened, pointing off to the right.  "We go south now," she panted.  "There's a small gap in the cliffs.  Not far from here.  It'll lead us out of the Mountains."

            She sniffed, wiping at the wet strands of hair again, and then blew into her fist, trying to warm her fingers.  Legolas glanced in the direction she had pointed but the snow and bleached gray of the cliffs camouflaged any gap there might have been.  He turned back to Laimea, trusting her words, and caught the hand she was attempting to warm in his own.

            He wrapped his hands around her palm, pressing her fingers into the warmth of his own skin, and frowned down at her.  "Perhaps we should camp," he said, speaking over the wind that whistled past the cliffs.

            She shook her head immediately, just as he'd known she would.  "No.  We can't stop now, Legolas.  We can't waste any more time."

            He sighed, looking into the depths of her brown eyes.  She had stubbornness in her he couldn't hope to break.  He saw it plainly in the way she looked at him now.  He rubbed her freezing fingers between his hands until they had warmth again.  He shook his head at her, his frown deepening.

            "The gap in the cliffs will shelter us from the wind," Laimea added, as if trying to convince him.  "It's several miles long.  We can camp at the end of it."

            Legolas looked back in the direction she had pointed, searching for the gap.  Then he turned back to her, hesitating.  She didn't wait for his reply.  She pulled her fingers from his hand and readjusted her cloak hood, gripped Morul's reins, and marched forward.

            Legolas stood there a moment, watching her trudge a path through the thick snow, and shook his head again.  Sometimes he couldn't understand how she'd made it through the mountains by herself, and other times it was perfectly clear.  He picked up the gelding's reins again in surrender and followed her.

            The clouds moved swiftly across the sun, pushed along by the wind that would eventually bring the storm Legolas sensed in the air.  Shadows slid over the snow before them, running through the narrow gap in the cliffs ahead; fleeing from the two travelers like rabbits from the wolf, and Legolas felt a gnawing sense of urgency building in his mind.

            Laimea walked steadily forward, unhurried and unbothered.  She led the way into the cliff space, but Legolas hesitated at the beginning of it.  The fissure was very narrow, no more than five feet across at its widest.  Nearly vertical cliffs rose high on either side, stretching on as far as he could see.  Those rock faces were impossible to climb; they would offer no escape.  He took his bow off his shoulder.  If attacked while in the passage they'd have nowhere to run.  He'd have to be very careful.

            He glanced at the way ahead, then looked over his shoulder.  Nothing remained behind but their footprints in the tumbled snow.  Legolas took a deep breath, swallowing hard, and followed Laimea through the looming walls of stone.  He smelled the wet rock, the snow, a hint of earthy clay, and thought unpleasantly how the closed-in space reminded him of their long days through Moria.  

            He tipped his head back, studying the stripe of blue sky with its passing gray clouds.  He hoped there would be no trouble along this passageway.  

They walked on.  The Sun slowly faded from the west.

The moon rose bright and full above, threatened by the choke of clouds building in the east.  Laimea kept one hand trailing along the rough bulges of the rock wall to her left.  The snow-lit path sometimes disappeared in the shadows of the night, but she never slowed her pace.  The touch of the wall guided her when the moon could not.

            She looked over her shoulder at Legolas.  He followed in her footprints, his bow in one hand and the lead of his horse in the other.  His Elven eyes focused on the ground in front of him and he frowned heavily in thought.  The reflection of the snow and moonlight bathed him in a cold white glow, paling his skin and hair and making his eyes gleam.

            She nearly stopped in her tracks to watch him walk, to study the play of light and dark over his body as he moved.  But they still had a ways to go before they could camp.  She forced herself to face the front again and kept walking.

            The night was quiet; the crunching of their boots and the horses' hooves on the snow seemed too loud.  A small, fast-running stream broke from beneath the snow a little ways farther on, flashing silver in the night, and trickled a winding path down the middle of the passageway.  Laimea watched the wavering reflection of the rising moon in the stream's hurried surface and decided they had traveled far enough that day.  She opened her mouth to ask Legolas if he wanted to camp when he appeared beside her suddenly.  His hand gripped her arm tightly and she froze in her tracks even before she saw the look on his face.

            "We're being followed," he whispered.

            Laimea tossed a look back the way they'd come but saw nothing.  She turned back to Legolas, meeting his worried eyes with her own expression of dread.  He motioned for her to be quiet and listen.  Laimea swallowed hard, shoving down the fear wedged in her throat, and held her breath.  The tinkling of the stream rose into the sudden silence.  Morsul snorted and Laimea flinched, then scolded herself for being so jumpy.  She heard nothing for a long time, and finally glanced up to Legolas in question.

            He shook his head, pointed back in the direction they had come.  Laimea sighed and looked that direction as well, straining her ears.  A few more moments passed, and then a faint sound came floating over the distance.  She turned to Legolas, her eyes wide.

            He nodded, releasing her arm.  "Is there any place we might hide here?" he asked quietly.

Laimea shook her head, biting her lower lip and looking around again in the faint moonlight.  "No.  Not that we could reach tonight."

Legolas hissed a breath through his teeth.  "I feared as much.  We must wait for them to come to us."

Laimea nodded in agreement and they readied themselves quickly.  They let the horses roam as they would, seeing as they had little place to go, and Laimea drew her sword, pushing her cloak hood back and flexing her stiff fingers.  She faced the way they had come, pressing herself up to the left rock wall.  Legolas stood along the right wall, an arrow already fitted to his bow.  Laimea had to squint to make him out against the pale gray rock.  The Elven cloak camouflaged him well.  She saw only a glimpse of one pointed ear, a braid of hair, and the long white bow with its shining arrow tip.

She swallowed and peered through the silvery night, listening for more sounds.  Eventually she heard distinct voices, soft and muffled.  She edged closer to the rock wall beside her, hugging the cold, rough surface.  

             The clouds drifted through the sky, half covering the high-risen moon.  The night grew darker.  The horses pawed at the snow and snorted restlessly.  The stream went on noisily through its snowy banks.  And still they waited.

            Laimea felt sleep drag at her body, pulling at her eyelids.  She blinked hard, refusing to give in to the weariness that weighed her limbs.  She yawned hugely; shook her head to try and wake herself up.

            Quiet words drifted suddenly across the open plain, echoing slightly off the walls that now enclosed Laimea and Legolas.  Laimea straightened, suddenly very awake, and her fingers tightened on her sword haft immediately.  She looked sharply to Legolas and found him slinking forward along the wall.  Her turned to her, met her eyes.  "Stay there," he mouthed silently, signaling with one hand to be sure she understood.

            Laimea made a face of displeasure but Legolas repeated his hand motion energetically.  Laimea rolled her eyes, but finally nodded, letting out a frustrated sigh.  She told herself if he left her sight she would follow.

            But the Elf didn't go far.  He stayed near the wall, creeping back along their trail beside the tiny stream.  She watched him crouch to one knee, readying his bow again.  There was another long period of stillness, and then Laimea noticed an approaching dark shape against the snow.  She peered at it, dimly making out the shape of a horse and rider.  She frowned heavily at the sight and moved forward slowly until she was nearly even with Legolas.

            He glanced to her briefly, shooting her a glare obvious even in the night.  She ignored it, focusing her attention instead on the rider.  The horse drew nearer, entering the gap between the two looming cliffs.  And then the rider dismounted, and Laimea blinked.  There were two riders, not just one.  The second rider stayed atop the horse while the first one walked ahead cautiously.  Laimea heard the unmistakable metallic clang of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

            She hefted her own weapon in her hand and swallowed.  She hoped these two dark figures were their only followers.  She glanced often to Legolas, growing restless as the walking person moved slowly down the path, leading the horse and second rider behind.  But Legolas remained motionless against the wall.

            The one walking crouched and Laimea braced herself, but then the figure rose again.  The night dragged on and still Legolas did not move; he only watched the moving shadows creep closer.

            Laimea's legs began to cramp and her arm ached from holding her sword too long.  She shifted uncomfortably.  The figures were now close enough to nearly see clearly, and Laimea saw the one walking was a tall Human male.  The second rider remained clothed in heavy shadow from the cliffs, but she could stand it no longer.  They were only a hundred or so yards away by now, and Legolas' arrows could reach them easily. 

            She stepped out onto the path, preparing to yell out for the approaching figures to identify themselves.  But almost as swiftly as she had left the wall a hand snatched her tunic sleeve and yanked her back into the shadow.

            "What are you doing?" Legolas demanded in a harsh whisper.

            Laimea pulled her arm from his grasp, meeting his stern blue gaze easily.  "They are too close," she said.  "We should know who they are now or kill them."

            Legolas looked out at the oncoming people.  "I know them," he said softly.

            Laimea stared at him.

            Legolas kept his eyes on the walker and the rider.

            Laimea stuck her sword tip in the snow, half leaning on the handle.  "Why didn't you say something?" 

            Legolas brought his bow up again.  "It may yet be a spell," he said.

            Laimea edged back into the cliff's shadow at his words, feeling a wave of unease hit her.  She raised her sword again.  She waited and watched while the shapes got closer, until finally she thought she recognized the faces.  But what reason would they have to be out here?

            Finally the man leading the horse stopped, only twenty yards out now, and he squinted ahead.  But he didn't see Legolas or Laimea pressed up against the rock wall.  The horses nickered at the newcomer and Laimea winced.  The man looked around uneasily.

            "Legolas?" he called quietly.  "Naa lle sinome?" Are you here? 

            Laimea immediately recognized the voice, but she remained quiet against the wall.

Legolas hardly blinked at the sound of his name.  "Ya merna waana?" Who wants to pass? the Elf called out suddenly, his clear voice echoing off the rock.

            The man standing in the snow looked around again, but still failed to locate the two travelers he searched for.  He sheathed his drawn sword, straightening his shoulders.  "Amin Aragorn Elessar, mellon en'edheli," I am Aragorn Elessar, friend of the Elves, the man spoke confidently into the night.  "I come with a message from Gandalf the White!"           

            "And I," came a rich, rolling voice from the back of the horse, "am Gimli, son of Gloin.  Now come out of your hiding place, Elf.  I want off this horse!"

            Legolas hesitated only a second longer before putting away his arrow and slinging his bow over his shoulder.  He stepped out from the shadow of the cliff and Aragorn turned to face him, nodding in acknowledgement of the Elf's ability to blend in even to sparse environments.

            Laimea sheathed her sword, shaking out her tired arm in relief.  She trailed after Legolas as he went to greet his friend.  They embraced briefly, clapping each other's shoulders.

"Long journey?" Legolas asked with a smile.

            Aragorn smirked.  "You didn't leave much of a trail to follow," the Ranger admitted.  "If you hadn't of left Orc bodies behind you we'd of been another few days before reaching you."

            A grunt and a thump brought their attention back to Gimli, who quickly stood from the snow and hastily brushed himself off.  Laimea raised a hand to her mouth to hide her smile as the Dwarf staggered toward them.  

            "We Dwarves were never meant to be on horses," Gimli grumbled.  "We like our own two legs best, you know.  Horses!  Beasts!  I can't abide them."  He looked up to Laimea, his expression morphing from displeasure to delight effortlessly.  He bowed deeply.  "My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again."

            Laimea gave him a short curtsy in return.  "Well met, Master Dwarf," she replied.

            Gimli smiled at her through his thick red beard and then turned abruptly to Legolas.  "And you!" the Dwarf nearly shouted, his heavy voice amplified by the rift.  "It is because of you I accompanied Lord Aragorn on this journey.  I see you have taken advantage of my absence by adding a few more Orcs to your score!"  Gimli scoffed.  "That is precisely why I came, you understand.  Can't have you running up your count behind my back!"  

Laimea frowned at Gimli's words, looking to Legolas.  "Your count?" she inquired curiously.

Legolas nodded, and he faced Gimli with a wry smile.  "It is now fifty-three Orcs for me, and forty-two for you, Gimli."

Gimli growled, one gloved hand going down to rest on the ax shining at his belt.  "That's not fair counting, Legolas!  And you know it!"

Legolas smiled guardedly but did not reply.  He motioned for Aragorn and Gimli to follow him.  "Let us find a place to rest and then you can give us your message."

Aragorn nodded, falling into step behind the Elf.  Laimea hurried to unpack the horses.

            In a short time they had all dug out clear spots in the snow and laid down cloaks and blankets to ward off the cold.  After eating a bit all four of them settled in on their blankets, forming a small circle, and the horses fell to dozing quietly behind them.

            "Now please," Laimea spoke up, "tell us of your message.  It must be important for you to come all this way after us."

            Aragorn glanced to his hands, his left thumb running absently over the ring on his right index finger.  He cleared his throat and looked up to Laimea across the small space that separated them.  "My Lady," he said slowly, "the message we bring holds no meaning for you, I'm afraid."

            Laimea held his gaze a moment, then swallowed and looked away, feeling strangely embarrassed.  

            "It is news for me then?" Legolas asked, filling the awkward silence quickly.

            "Yes," Aragorn said.  "After we take the Lady back to Gondor we are to meet Gandalf and King Theoden at Isengard."

            "Isengard?" Legolas repeated.  His voice was strangely toneless.

            Laimea looked up at the name, feeling her heart jump.  But Legolas asked the question before it could form on her tongue.

            "What business do we have there?"

            Aragorn shrugged.  "Gandalf will not say for certain.  But that is his message for you."

            Legolas remained silent, staring off somewhere in the distance with a creased frown on his face.  

Laimea sensed the camaraderie of these three around her and felt suddenly out of place.  "Well," she said into the quiet, "there's no need for me to be escorted anywhere.  I came from Gondor with no escort.  I need none to return there.  I won't be a burden to you."

            "My Lady," Aragorn started in quickly, "be certain you are not a burden to us.  It was never meant to sound that way."

            "Nevertheless," Laimea continued, "you are wasting your time taking me back to Gondor.  You three should head to Isengard tomorrow.  You will get there sooner that way."

            "No," Legolas spoke up.  Laimea sent a sharp look in his direction but he met her glare calmly.  "Gandalf appointed me as your escort to Gondor," he explained quietly.  "I trust in Gandalf's guidance.  He would not have sent me with you if it were not for a good reason."

"Legolas is right," Aragorn said.  "Gandalf knows more of things than we do.  We will take you to Gondor, and only then will we go to Isengard."

_They have more important duties_, Laimea thought suddenly.  _Legolas' obligation is to them first.  Escorting me is secondary._  It was like a revelation.  She'd gotten used to being the center of Legolas' attention, allowed herself to forget for the past few days that he was a warrior fighting against the spread of evil throughout Middle-Earth.  Laimea dropped her eyes, embarrassed by the fact she'd been thinking so selfishly.

She sighed and glanced to Legolas; found he still watched her.  She studied his face, the intensity of his stare, the shape of his lips, the points of his ears.  Now that Gimli and Aragorn had arrived she would have no more days alone with him.  _Just as well, _she thought.

Legolas would leave her behind in Gondor - they all would - and they would forget about her.  _It's better that way_, she told herself.  _You have been enjoying Legolas' company too much.  And you know nothing about their journey before this.  You don't belong with them.  They have other things they must do._

 "Very well," she finally relented.  "I will agree that Gandalf's leadership is often wise even when I cannot see the reason for what he says."  She directed her gaze toward Aragorn.  "But I would ask that we hasten our pace.  If you must take me all the way to Gondor, I would hope we could go as fast as possible.  Then you may rejoin the rest of your company in good time."

  Aragorn lifted the corners of his mouth in a small smile and gave a nod.  "We have many things yet to do," he agreed.  "And I am sure you want to get back to your home as well.  Speed would be to both our advantages." 

"Well then," Gimli broke in suddenly, "if I must be forced into more days of hard riding, I must be allowed to ride with you, Legolas.  Aragorn may be a great tracker, but none guide a horse as smoothly as you."

Aragorn shrugged in defeat and Legolas smiled good-naturedly at his friend.  "Very well, Gimli.  My horse won't mind.  Tomorrow you can sit with me."

Gimli dipped his helmeted head toward Legolas in a grateful nod.  "Perhaps the next few days of travel will be more bearable then," the Dwarf suggested with cunning smile toward Aragorn.  He turned then to Laimea, and bowed his head again.  "Of course any journey would be more pleasant while in your presence, my Lady."

Laimea smiled at the Dwarf, feeling a delighted blush grow across her cheeks.  She bowed her head in return.  "I am most honored, Master Dwarf," she said politely. 

"If we are to leave early tomorrow we had best get some rest," Aragorn said, looking up to the sky.  "The moon is already dropping."

"Are we to do watches?" Gimli asked eagerly.  "I'd like the chance to even up my count!"

Aragorn smiled at the Dwarf.  "I think that would be best, now that there are three of us."

Laimea coughed into her hand, and all three pairs of eyes turned her way.  She crossed her arms.  "I would like to keep watch too, if we are to take turns," she said.

Gimli looked at once to Aragorn, who seemed about to tell her no, but Legolas put out a hand to interrupt.  "Perhaps we should take watch in two's," he suggested, sensing the argument that would ensue if Aragorn refused to let the woman help.

Aragorn looked to the Elf and then to Laimea.  After a moment he nodded.  "Very well then.  We will take watch in two's.  Now to –"

"I'll watch with Gimli," Laimea spoke up quickly.  Aragorn and Legolas blinked at her, but she wouldn't meet Legolas' eyes.  Gimli simply smiled.

"Then Aragorn and I will take first watch," Legolas said, and Laimea heard the hesitation in his voice.  He hadn't expected her to speak up so quickly, or choose Gimli, that was obvious.  But she had to stay away from him as much as possible, and having Aragorn and Gimli there provided her with an excuse to pull herself away from him.

It'd been a mistake to let him sleep so close, to let herself become so smitten with him in so short a time.  She blamed it on his Elvish charm; his ethereal presence, the expression of his eyes, and his voice - the voice that could soothe her into a deep sleep within moments.  Laimea shook her head, shoving the thoughts away.  She wasn't helping herself any by thinking of those things.

Warnings sounded in the back of her mind.  Hadn't her mother cautioned her repeatedly about such an attraction to an Elf?  It would only lead to disaster.  But she'd forgotten how beautiful they were, how melodious the Elven tongue sounded when spoken aloud . . .

"All right," Gimli was saying reluctantly.  "But if you see anything, you must wake me."

Aragorn and Legolas agreed, and Gimli removed his helmet and settled back on his blanket.  He was snoring before Laimea herself lied down.  She smiled at the Dwarf and nodded a good night to the other two as she lied down on her own blanket.  She wrapped herself in her cloak and extra coverlet tightly, trying to ignore the absence of Legolas' warm body beside her.  Exhaustion pulled her into sleep quickly despite the bitter cold of night.

Legolas and Aragorn stayed up long after Gimli and Laimea had fallen asleep.  They talked in quiet voices about the journey over the White Mountains, and about what had been happening at Helm's Deep since Legolas had left.  They talked about the remainder of their journey to Gondor and debated the fastest way to Isengard.  They mentioned Frodo and the Ring briefly, afraid to talk too openly about it in this unknown land.  Then they'd fallen silent, left with their own thoughts.

Aragorn stared off into the snowy distance and Legolas glanced often to Laimea, who turned restlessly in her sleep.  The Elf's thoughts drifted as he watched her.  He thought back to the promise he'd made about taking her to Mirkwood and wondered if he would be able to keep it.  He wondered if he should have even promised it in the first place.  As Aragorn had mentioned, they had many things yet to do.  They were still far from where they needed to be to overtake Sauron's growing power.  Frodo and Sam remained out of their reach for now, and as much as Legolas wanted to go after them, he knew he could not until Gandalf approved of it.  

He sighed, moving to cover Laimea with one of his blankets, barely resisting the urge to lie down beside her as he had been doing the past few nights.  He realized then that he was glad he watched with Aragorn instead of the woman.  She dominated his thoughts when he was alone with her, and now that Aragorn and Gimli had joined them he'd been jolted back to the more serious duties that awaited him once Laimea reached Gondor.  He understood she'd made the wise decision tonight, but what was her reasoning for choosing Gimli?  He watched her face and wished he knew more about her.  

She frowned with troubled dreams.  He'd told her of his nightmare, but did she have nightmares of her own?  

            "You care for her," Aragorn stated suddenly from behind.

            Legolas turned around to look at the man, but answered slowly.  "Yes."

            Aragorn sat with his back against the nearest rock wall, his blue eyes studying Legolas.  "And what happens when you must leave her behind in Gondor?"

            Legolas stood, facing Aragorn.  "It is my duty to get her to Gondor safely, Aragorn.  Once we are there and I have given my message she is not my concern."

            "Isn't she?" Aragorn asked.

            Legolas sighed and looked away from the intense blue eyes, wondering if the man could really see through him so easily.  The Elf brought his eyes up to the muddled stars above.  "I promised I would show her Mirkwood," he admitted quietly.

Aragorn's eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward from the wall.  There was a brief moment of silence.  "Legolas-," he started, but the Elf interrupted.

"I know."  Legolas faced the man again.  "I shouldn't have promised her something like that.  It could be years before I would be able to take her there."

Aragorn did not reply, but Legolas saw the expectant look on the man's face and turned away once again.  He walked quietly across the snow to his gelding and patted the horse's neck, trying to sort out his thoughts.

"Have you heard her speak Elvish?" he asked Aragorn suddenly, talking over his shoulder just loud enough to be heard.

Aragorn shook his head.

"She speaks it as well as you," Legolas continued, leaving his horse to come stand next to the man; well aware of what his restless movements conveyed to the observer.  "Perhaps even better," he added, making himself sit down so he'd stop pacing. 

Aragorn shrugged.  "Perhaps she grew up around the Elves."

Legolas frowned, thinking back to the few times he had discussed Laimea's past with her.  "Perhaps," he conceded.  "But I think there's something more . . . I know not what yet, but I feel it.  That's why I promised to show her Mirkwood."

Aragorn sighed, looked down to the ring he twisted around on his finger.  "Legolas," he said slowly, bringing his gaze back to the Elf's youthful face, "you cannot keep such a promise."

Legolas stared at his friend for a moment.  "I could.  I could come back and –"

"No," Aragorn interjected, shaking his head.  "The thought of her would distract you from your other duties."

Legolas' eyes sharpened.  "Does Arwen distract you?"

Aragorn's hand rose briefly to the shining pendant around his neck, but his eyes met Legolas' steadily.  "Somewhat," he answered truthfully.  "It is harder to not fear death in battle when you have someone waiting for you."

Legolas contemplated the words, nodding slowly in understanding.  "I pledged my bow to the Fellowship," he said quietly, his voice even.  "I will do whatever is necessary to honor that oath."

            Aragorn gave a nod in return.  "Then you must forget about Laimea, Legolas.  Tell her you cannot take her to Mirkwood, and put her out of your mind.  At least until this battle is over.  For her sake and for your own."

            Legolas remained silent for a while, shifting to look past Aragorn down the path he and Laimea had taken alone just earlier that day.  He remembered their talks together, the flash of her smile, the smell of her hair, her utter stubbornness at the cliff.  He swallowed hard.  _I've allowed myself to become preoccupied with her_.

            "You are right, my friend," the Elf whispered quietly into the aging night.  "You are right.  My feelings for her must pass as we pass from the gates of Minas Tirith."  

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	6. Gondor

Author's Note:  Thank you especially to Luthien Amandil for this chapter and many following, because without her undying knowledge of Tolkien and much of her help with details this fic wouldn't be nearly so accurate!  Also thanks to all readers who've been patient enough to still be reading, and please, if you notice an error, don't hesitate to point it out!  If it has not already been noticed, I am going both from books and movie, switching as best fits my story.  So if any of you were confused… now you know!  That is all, Enjoy!  ^_^  Lossefalme

Chapter Six: Gondor

            Laimea looked up from their small fire, staring past the flickering flames to the vague glimmering shape of Minas Tirith in the distance.  They'd ridden hard the past three days and would reach the city by the following night.  She sighed heavily.  One more day with Legolas, and then he'd be gone.  

            Soft splashing in the small stream behind her drew her attention but she didn't turn around.  Legolas and Aragorn were rinsing days worth of traveling dust and dirt from their faces and hands, grateful for the warmer waters.  Laimea herself had already scrubbed her face and arms as well as she could, and attempted to straighten out the tangles of her hair.  It hadn't done much good without soap.  

            Gimli sat across the fire from her, eating a cooked piece of a rabbit Aragorn had speared earlier.  Laimea smiled at the sight.  Gimli had just washed and combed his beard, and already pieces of dropped food had caught in it.

            As if sensing her thoughts the Dwarf grunted and swiped at his beard a few times, then went back to eating.  

Legolas stepped around Laimea and went to sit next to Gimli, and her smile faded.  She looked back down to the fire, but not before noticing Legolas had taken out the braids in his hair.  She stole another quick glance at him as he sat down.  The pale strands of Elven-smooth hair fell over his ears and across his face, and she was struck by how different he looked with his hair down.

She forced her eyes from him, focusing instead on Aragorn as the man came to sit down next to her.  She had first watch tonight, with Aragorn.  She'd avoided watch with Legolas so far, and tried to keep herself from spending too much time talking with the Elf.  Those six days alone together had been long enough.  She'd nearly let herself fall for him even in that short of time, and still with others for company she found it exceedingly hard to keep her distance from him.

 Legolas had noticed the change in her behavior, she could tell by the expression in his eyes.  First there'd been confusion, then discomfort, and now frustration.  He constantly tried to be near her, to get her alone somewhere where they could talk away from the ears of their companions.  But she'd always managed to thwart his efforts, though it pained her to do it.  She wanted nothing more than to sit and talk with him, like they had during the beginning of their journey.  She wanted to hear his voice singing in the Elven tongue again and feel his warmth against her back when she slept.

Laimea squeezed her eyes shut, angry with herself_.  No!_ she told herself firmly.  _You don't want those things.  You don't.  It wouldn't last.  He's an Elf.  You're only attracted to him because he's an Elf . . . and he would only hurt you in the end.  His ultimate devotion is to his own kind, and he would leave you for them.  He _is_ leaving you . . . he is leaving you . . .     _

She swallowed hard, opening her eyes again.  She glanced across the fire, caught Legolas' eyes.  His stare locked her in place and she couldn't look away.  The fire danced against his blue eyes, and the expression on his face asked many questions.  She sat rigid for a moment, unable to move, until she finally ripped her gaze away from his and stood.

"I'll hobble the horses," she said hoarsely as she moved away.  She went to Morsul first, who eagerly grazed the rich green grasses of the valleys in Gondor.  After so many days of traveling the sparse mountains even the horses were glad for some fresh feed.  She went through the motions of hobbling her and Aragorn's horses, knowing Legolas didn't approve of immobilizing his mount, and found herself once again thinking of the Elf.

He'd acted slightly different around her as well since that first night after Aragorn and Gimli had met up with them.  He'd been withdrawn, almost always somberly in thought.  At times he acted almost uncomfortable around her, and Laimea wondered what had brought about _his _change in conduct.  It worried her, though she knew it shouldn't.  Why should she expect his behavior toward her to remain the same when she had so suddenly changed her attitude toward him?

She finished with the horses and gave Morsul's shining black neck a loving pat before moving back for the fire.  She nearly walked into Legolas, coming to a halt suddenly just before crashing into him.  He caught her arm as she tried to subtly edge around him.

Laimea glanced up to his face at the grip on her elbow, swallowing again at the look in his eyes.  The night sky crowned his head in stars and his face glowed blue with the moonlight shadow,  much like the night she'd run into him on the Deeping Wall.  She silently cursed herself for going up to the wall that night.  Perhaps if she had never spoken to him that night it would have been easier to watch him leave the gates of Minas Tirith.

"Laimea," he whispered, "mani naa raika?  Mankoi naa lle umien sina?"  What is wrong?  Why are you doing this? 

She stared at him for a long moment, feeling her heart pounding furiously behind her ribs.  The troubled look on his fair face nearly made her change her mind about him, but at the last minute she gained control of the impulses his presence set loose in her mind and forced her voice through a constricted throat.  "What do you mean?" she choked out.

He frowned, his dark brows drawing down to hood brooding eyes.  "You know of what I speak," he told her.  "Why do you run from me?"

Laimea blinked at him.  She tried to think of an answer to give him, but nothing would come to her numbed mind.  She only stood and stared at the Elf, until finally she shook her head mutely, trying once again to move away.  He wouldn't let go of her elbow and she glanced up to him again briefly.

"Have I offended you?" he asked quietly.

Laimea shook her head again sadly.  She wished he had.  It'd make things easier.  "No, Legolas," she whispered.  "Not you . . ."

"Then what is it?" he asked again, dissatisfaction evident in his tone.  "Seas, Please Laimea." 

Laimea swallowed back the lump in her throat, refusing to meet his eyes.  She couldn't bear to look at him anymore.  She shook her head one final time and drew away from him.  This time he let her go, and she went quickly back to the refuge of the fire.

Legolas felt Laimea's arm slip from his fingers and watched her go back to the fire, feeling an overwhelming sense of dismay at her silence.  Something deeply troubled her, but it was clear she had no intentions of telling him what.  Her behavior towards him had changed abruptly since the night Aragorn and Gimli had arrived with their message, and he wondered if she'd perhaps overheard his and Aragorn's discussion.

His frown deepened at the thought.  He couldn't stand to see her so upset, it was worse that he didn't know the cause of her silence toward him.  If his words were to blame for her suffering . . . Legolas turned from the fire to look out over the silent hills toward the south.  No, it wouldn't do to have his words be the cause of her recent distress.  He'd never seen her look so tortured as she had when she'd looked at him that night.

Legolas sighed heavily, remembering Aragorn's words to him three nights ago.  He'd not be able to put Laimea from his mind until he was sure her hurt didn't come from him.  He glanced over his shoulder to their tiny camp and saw the woman talking to Gimli.  She seemed to have forgotten their conversation already.  The Elf felt a slight stir of envy rise in him but quickly pushed it away.  Clearly her problem lied with him.  Otherwise she'd not be able to talk to Gimli and Aragorn so freely.

Legolas turned away from the three of them and moved off down the small slope, heading south.  He brushed through the tall, dew-wet grass quickly, leaving hardly a trail behind him, and vanished like a wraith into the darkness.

***

Laimea sat on watch with Aragorn late into the night, Gimli snoring loudly beside them.  The fire had turned to ashes long ago, and still Legolas had not returned.  Laimea's gaze constantly wondered over the hills around them, straining to the limits of the moon's faint light, searching for any sign of the Elf.  She worried her lower lip and tapped the fingers of her right hand along her sword haft, a nervous habit she'd picked up after many long rides.  

"He won't wander far," Aragorn informed her calmly from across the remains of the fire.  "He will return."

Laimea stopped tapping her fingers, bringing her gaze around to the man.  She cleared her throat, embarrassed that her concern for Legolas was so painfully obvious.  "Of course he will," she said confidently, but her throat tightened.

She bit her lip again and went back to tapping her fingers.  A few more moments of silence passed.  But then she could stand it no longer.  "Why would he leave in such a manner, without telling any of us?" she demanded of Aragorn.  "He knows it's dangerous to wander alone in these times!  I'd think an Elf would have better judgment than to go disappearing into the night!"

"An Elf, my Lady," Aragorn said evenly, "would need some time to think by himself.  Just like any of the rest of us."  He gave a keen look in her direction and Laimea shifted under it.  "But if any of us are fit to go walking alone," he continued, "it is Legolas.  Do not worry yourself over him."

Laimea peered at Aragorn curiously, sensing the man knew more than he let on.  But now was not the time to ask.  She tried to convince herself Aragorn had known Legolas far longer than she and knew the Elf's behaviors.  She sighed and put her hands in her lap, her eyes going back to their restless scanning.  Soon her fingers began to tap again.

"That is an Elven blade," Aragorn said suddenly, startling Laimea from her resumed worries.

"Pardon?" she asked blankly.

Aragorn gave a nod to the sword still attached to her hip; her hand rested on the smooth, dark wood of the haft.  "Your sword," he said again, "It was crafted by Elven hands.  Curious that Human hands now hold it."

Laimea's fingers tightened around the worn grip at the mention of the weapon, a shock of fear shooting through her.  She saw the strange gleam in Aragorn's eyes and feared he knew the truth.  But she nodded.  It would be useless to lie.  Aragorn knew much about the Elves, this much she could tell.

"Mani naa ta essa?" What is its name? Aragorn asked quietly, lapsing into the Elven tongue easily.

"Nimrunya . . . White Flame," Laimea answered.  Her fingers traced the delicate gold inscription that ran along the length of her scabbard, and almost without thinking she read it aloud.  "Nimrunya naa amin, tiri vee'Earendil e'i'ilmen, huine rima tuulo' silienantamin, ai' 'kshhoon sintuva naaraienlamamin." White Flame am I, bright as Earendil in the sky, darkness flees from my shining face, and evil hearts will know my burning taste.   She fell silent, staring at Aragorn as if shocked she'd spoken the words aloud.

The man smiled at her.  "Legolas told me you spoke Elvish," he said.  "You do indeed speak it well."

Laimea shifted uncomfortably under Aragorn's watch.  "Thank you," she mumbled awkwardly, not sure if she was really thankful for the comment or not.

"How did you learn to speak it?" the man asked next, and he seemed genuinely interested in her answer.

Laimea nearly winced at the question.  She'd known it was coming, and yet she had no prepared answer.  She hesitated a long moment, looking steadily to her hands in her lap.  "My mother taught me," she finally admitted laboriously, speaking each word carefully.  "When I was a little girl."  She stopped, unwilling to go on, but Aragorn didn't press her.

A brief silence passed between them.  

"How skilled are you with the sword?" Aragorn asked suddenly, lightly.

Laimea looked to him sharply at the abrupt change in conversation, but Aragorn sat leisurely on his blanket, fixing her with a soft stare that was neither questioning nor accusing.  He wasn't going to pursue that path of discussion.  

Laimea felt relief wash through her.  She managed a small grateful smile in his direction as she replied.  "I fear the sword is not my strongest skill," she said ruefully.

"Even with a blade such as that one?" he asked in disbelief.

Laimea shrugged half-heartedly. "The sword is light, and well-balanced, but I've never been able to master it completely."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose and he nodded to her.  "Then perhaps I can be of some help."

Laimea sent a doubtful look across the fire's ashes, but Aragorn stood from his seat.  She immediately shook her head.  "No, no, you needn't do that.  It isn't necessary for you to –"

Aragorn stood over her, offering down a hand to help her stand, and Laimea accepted it slowly, amazed that this man would do such a thing for her.  He pulled her to her feet and stepped back from her a few paces, drawing his sword.

"You may yet have the need to fight, my Lady of Gondor," Aragorn said.  "It is best you be properly prepared.  Now, start by showing me what you've learned already."

Laimea hesitated, but then complied, feeling awkward and clumsy next to the Ranger.  But Aragorn had considerable patience, and he showed her many of the finer points of sword fighting.  She practiced techniques far into the night, her curved Elvish blade glinting in the darkness, and Aragorn thought Nimrunya did burn as bright as Earendil when it caught the silver moonlight against it's gleaming surface.

***

Laimea fell asleep in the hours before dawn, when she could no longer stay awake despite her anxiety over Legolas' absence.  Aragorn didn't bother to wake Gimli, but stayed up alone to watch another few hours.  He saw in the bare hours before the sun peeked it's bright face over the horizon a dark shape in the night.  His sharp Ranger eyes focused on the black figure and then Aragorn smiled, recognizing the silhouette standing atop a westerly grassy knoll.  It was Legolas, perfectly still in the night, looking northeast towards Minas Tirith, occasionally sweeping his keen Elvish gaze over the rest of the surrounding land.

Aragorn looked back to Laimea, who'd fallen asleep sitting up and then drooped over sideways to lie rather unceremoniously on her blanket.  He shook his head, wondering if Legolas knew the woman thought about him as much as he thought about her.  Aragorn had thought that by now Legolas would have pulled himself farther from Laimea, given what the Elf had said during their talk in the Mountains.  But in fact the opposite seemed true.

It seemed instead that Laimea pulled away from Legolas.  And the farther she tried to get from him, the closer he tried to get to her.  Yet she'd done a fine job of hiding her obvious feelings towards Legolas the past three days, Aragorn thought.  He'd never known she'd cared so much for his friend until this night, when she'd been so worried about him disappearing without warning.

Aragorn sighed, lying back on his own blanket and facing the fading stars.  He came to a decision in that moment, lying there thinking about the Elf and the woman. Legolas had to go to Minas Tirith with Laimea alone. It would give them time to talk, for Legolas to tell Laimea the things he needed to tell her, and only by doing that could Legolas find the peace he now searched for in the cold stare of the stars.  

Aragorn closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze lightly, knowing Legolas stood not far away, looming over the rolling valleys like a silent stone sentential.  

***

Laimea stirred restlessly, feeling the sun against her closed eyelids.  She heard whispers and opened her eyes slightly, peering out into the new morning through her eyelashes.  

Dawn just brushed the eastern sky, casting rays of orange and pink up into the dome of the heavens to hide away the stars again.  She looked in the direction of the quiet voices and saw Aragorn talking to Legolas.  

Her eyes flew open at the sight of the Elf, standing there calmly before Aragorn, as if he'd never left.  She nearly jumped from her blanket, wanting to run to Legolas and demand why he'd felt it necessary to wander off in the middle of the night and worry her to death.  But she didn't move, remembering her refusal to talk to him the night before.  His hurt expression burned before her eyes and she shut them quickly, trying to push the image away.  

She heard soft footsteps approaching and felt her heart jump.  A light touch on her shoulder startled her and she opened her eyes, pretending to be waking up for the first time.  Aragorn stood over her and Laimea frowned; she'd expected Legolas.  But it was the man and not the Elf who now looked down at her.

"Come," he said quietly, "it is time to go.  We've lingered here long enough."

Laimea nodded and sat up, stretching.  She glanced sideways and saw Legolas waking Gimli.  She turned away, wondering why the sight stirred up anger.  She stood and began to gather her blankets; Aragorn followed her as she went to saddle up Morsul.

"Legolas will take you to Minas Tirith," the man said.  "I will not go with you.  It is not yet my time to enter the White City."

Laimea looked to him in confusion, putting her saddle back on the ground.  "Where will you go then?" 

"Gimli and I will ride on toward Isengard," Aragorn said.  "Legolas can catch up to us later."

Laimea swallowed hard, realizing she would be traveling alone with Legolas once again.  She lifted the saddle onto Morsul's back and turned to Aragorn.  "I can go to the city myself-" 

"I must give the Lord Denethor Gandalf's message," Legolas said from behind, and Laimea whirled to face him.  He'd braided his hair again and the rising sun cast a faint blush across his face.  Laimea caught her breath.  The Elf's shining eyes held her still, but something about him had changed.  His expression was darker, harder, and he looked at her differently.

She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and turned back to her horse, cinching the girth and moving to the bridle.  "Very well," she whispered, not having the heart to argue at the moment.

Legolas moved away silently at her concession and went to the top of the hill they'd camped on.  He shielded his eyes from the sun, looking for his gelding that'd also gone wondering during the night.  He whistled, a sharp piercing sound that rolled out over the valleys.

He waited, and Laimea finished with Morsul.  Aragorn's horse had also been readied by the time a whinny came back to them.  Morsul sent out a mighty answering neigh, and soon they saw the gray gelding galloping over the long green grasses toward them.

Laimea mounted up and Legolas caught the gelding as it reached the group.  Gimli hurried up to her side suddenly.  "My Lady," he said in his thick accent, "it has been a pleasure to travel in your company.  I only wish we did not have to say good bye so soon."

Laimea grinned down at the Dwarf.  "You have made the journey pass ever the more swiftly, Gimli son of Gloin.  I too, will miss your company in my travels."

Gimli smiled at her beneath his beard and bowed his helmeted head.  Then he looked up to her again.  "I hope we may meet again, my Lady," he said sincerely.  "Perhaps in better times."

Laimea gave him a grave nod in return.  "The city of Minas Tirith will always be open to you, Gimli."

He smiled again and bowed once more before backing away as Legolas steered his gelding to the top of the hill.  Aragorn lifted Legolas' saddle but Legolas shook his head.  "Leave it," he said.  "I need it not.  I can ride faster without it."

Laimea looked to Legolas in disbelief, but the Elf caught two handfuls of the gelding's mane and swung aboard the horse's back easily.  She peered at him curiously as he maneuvered the gelding forward using no outward signs of command.

He looked to her.  "Are you ready?"

She nodded silently, and Legolas said a brief and temporary good bye to his two friends.  They rode away from Gimli and Aragorn at an easy gallop, heading quickly for the fortress-city rising like a jagged mountain of pearl in the distance.

***

Laimea stole sideways glances to Legolas as they rode swiftly across the valley.  He sat easily upon the back of the gelding without a saddle, and the horse went where he wanted without a bridle.  She watched him gallop beside her for a while, marveling at his balance.  One hand rested lightly on the horse's withers, and the other on his thigh.  He kept his eyes ahead and wouldn't look at her.

She sighed and turned back to the front, urging Morsul to a faster pace.

But when the sun had reached the pinnacle of the sky they slowed to give the horses a rest, and in the absence of the rushing wind an awkward silence fell over them.  Laimea shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, realizing suddenly that never before had she felt so uneasy in Legolas' presence.

"Laimea?"  She startled when he said her name but turned to him immediately, both hopeful and fearful of what he would say.  

The Elf halted his gelding with some unseen signal and Laimea reined up Morsul.  Legolas sat there for a long moment, watching his horse's ears, and then finally looked to her.  His stare burned into her like hot coals.  "It is not Aragorn or Gimli who causes you pain," he said bitterly.  "And you say I do not.  Yet I have watched you these past three days and I can only think that it is I indeed who have offended you in some way."

Laimea shook her head.  "Legolas –," she began, but he waved her words away.

"Do not pretend you haven't acted differently around me since Aragorn and Gimli joined us," he said.  "I must know the truth, Laimea.  I must know if I have done something, or said something, that has made you act this way toward me."

Laimea sighed, looking down to her hands.  "Legolas," she said again, "you have done nothing wrong."  _You're just too perfect_, she added silently.

"Then why do you do this?" he demanded.

Laimea once again struggled for words.  "Because I . . ." she broke off and swallowed through a dry throat.  She wanted to tell him, she wanted to tell him very much, and yet she couldn't bring herself to do it.  He wouldn't understand.

She prodded Morsul into a walk again.  "You have your path to follow, and I have mine.  It is unlikely our paths will cross again."  She paused, taking a deep breath.  "I do not like good byes, Legolas."

He watched her closely, waiting for her to say more, but Laimea looked over to him and took in his confident stature on the bare back of his horse.  "Do you usually ride like that?" she asked suddenly, purposefully changing the subject.

Legolas' eager face fell at her question.  "All Elves ride in this manner," he answered shortly, his disappointment at her change of conversation evident.

Laimea took in his clipped words and then dismounted, beginning to unsaddle Morsul.  Legolas watched her for a second, and then his eyes widened suddenly in realization.

"What are you doing?" he demanded frantically.

Laimea ignored his question and proceeded to dump her saddle on the ground.  She tied her blankets together and then looped the extra rope around her shoulders to form a type of harness.  She fastened her nearly depleted food bag to her belt and moved to Morsul's head.

"Laimea," Legolas tried again, an edge of panic to his voice.  "What are you doing?  You cannot ride like that!  It is too dangerous!"

Laimea paid no attention to his warnings, though a small voice in her head told her he was right.  She removed Morsul's bridle and set it next to the saddle, grasping a part of the stallion's mane tightly in one hand.  He pranced in place, thinking he'd get to go loose, and Laimea felt nervousness churn in her stomach.

She swallowed it down, knowing she had to be calm if she was going to live through this.  But if Legolas wanted to ride that way . . . well she could ride like that too.  Besides, if Morsul bolted, all she had to do was hang on for dear life, and he would eventually stop.

"Laimea, please," Legolas begged.  "What are you going to do with your saddle?" he asked, trying different reasoning with her.  "Leave it here?"

"I'll come back for it later," she explained, turning her back on him as she faced Morsul's side and grabbed two fistfuls of mane.  She stepped back, then took a running step forward and launched herself in the air, using the long black mane for leverage.  She hooked her right leg over Morsul's back and struggled to pull herself up the rest of the way.  Not as graceful as Legolas had done it, but . . . Morsul trotted off, and Laimea barely hauled herself onto his back in time before he stepped up into a canter.

Legolas appeared beside her just as she balanced herself, and she smiled smartly over at him.  He shook his head at her, his face creased with a stern frown.  "This is not a good idea," he yelled over the wind.

But she only felt her confidence grow as they continued cantering, and Laimea desperately wanted to show Legolas she could ride as well as he.  She looked at him wildly and grinned.  "Care for another race, Elf?" she asked.

Legolas opened his mouth to protest but Laimea didn't wait to hear the words.  She clutched Morsul's mane and kicked her heels into his bare sides.  The stallion threw up his head, nostrils flaring with the open invitation, and leapt out over the grasses in blinding speed.

Legolas cursed and spurred his gelding after the black shape tearing holes in the ground, expecting to see Laimea's tumbling form falling from it at any moment.

But as they went on Laimea realized it wasn't as hard to ride Elf-fashion as she'd thought, though she knew she didn't have control of the stallion like Legolas had control of his horse.  Still, Morsul knew the way home, and she let him take her there.  Legolas' gelding couldn't catch up until they'd almost reached the looming height of the city's outer wall, Rammas Echor.

***

Legolas slowed his gelding as they approached the southerly side of the outer wall, seeing Morsul drop into a trot ahead of him.  Laimea still clung to the stallion's back and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief.  He was surprised the woman hadn't fallen off in her horse's crazy gallop across the valleys, as she clearly hadn't had much control over the animal.  But they were close to the city now, and Morsul seemed to sense it, for he slowed even more into a walk, breathing hard and covered in sweat from his run.

Legolas looked to the sky, judging it to be about midnight.  They had traveled fast, however recklessly, and he was grateful for the speed.  He moved his gelding to ride beside Laimea, and now that he no longer had to worry about her being killed he found himself angry at her foolishness.

She looked over to him, still grinning, breathing hard.  Her braid was a mess, and long strands of hair had fallen over her face.  He saw she was trembling and concern mixed with his anger.  The Elf glared at her.

"That was pure folly!" he snapped.  "You could have been killed!"

Laimea merely smiled at him.  "But I did it," she said simply.  

Legolas looked away from her as they rode north toward the gates of the outer wall.  "You had no control over the horse," he went on, still angry.  "You must not ride like that unless you can control your horse!  You tempt disaster!"

He glanced to her; saw she looked down to her hands in front of her with a stony look on her face.  

"Never do that again, do you understand?  You were lucky this time, do not chance it a second time."

"Why not?" Laimea demanded moodily, fixing him with her own glare under the full moon.  "Why can't anyone but the Elves ride in such a fashion?  Are you so much better than the rest of us?"

Legolas looked to her sharply, taken off guard by the question.  Her expression was half shadowed by the moonlight, but he thought he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes before she turned her face away from him.

His anger melted away, replaced by alarm and confusion over her question and her tears.  "Laimea," he said apologetically, "I did not mean to say it that way."

"But that's what you think, isn't it?" she asked bitterly, and her voice cut.

Legolas shook his head, unconsciously moving his horse closer to hers.  "No, Laimea," he said softly.  "I don't think that."  He put out a hand to gently bring her face around to his again.  There was no mistaking the tears in her eyes this time.  He brushed a fallen one away from her cheek with his thumb.  "That's not what I think at all."

Laimea blinked and pulled her chin away from his hand, swiping at her tears angrily.  "So you say," she muttered, and she moved Morsul off ahead of him.

Legolas sat there a moment, watching her guide the black stallion along the wall.  An eerie feeling crept over him as he realized the horse listened to her now, and followed her subtle directions.  He frowned.  Perhaps there were other reasons why Laimea was the fastest rider in Gondor . . .

Legolas abruptly closed off the thoughts.  He couldn't speculate about her without knowing more.  He followed after her, lost in memories of their first few days of travel together, and questioning still why she had so suddenly changed in actions toward him, and now a nagging feeling at the back of his mind whispered to him about what the woman might be hiding from him.

***

            They reached the northeasterly gates of Rammas Echor, and the guards let them pass after speaking for a moment with Laimea.  Legolas couldn't help but notice the looks of awe on their faces when they saw him, nor could he ignore the whispers they shared when Laimea passed by without saddle or bridle.  He wondered what the city people would think of her when the word got around that she'd been riding like an Elf - and traveling with one.

            The two of them turned southwards, picking up into a canter to cover the ten miles to the Great Gates more quickly.  They passed silently through the townlands of Gondor, leaving behind rich fields and homesteads nestled in the night.  Legolas inhaled deeply, catching the sweet scent of fruit orchards on the gentle breeze.  

            To their right in the distance rose the black and pointed peak of Mount Mindolluin, and the Tower of Ecthelion rose tall and high within the seventh circle of the Guarded City.  Legolas looked up to it's shape in awe, for even in the moonlight it shone as bright as silver, the top glittering brilliantly as the stars, and the white banners on its battlements flapped lazily, winking with their own light against the night sky.

            But Laimea didn't slow to let him look.  She rode straight and hard for the Great Gates on the east side of the outermost of the seven walls.  They reached the huge iron doors as the moon angled down behind the Mountains and the sentinels there stopped them, speaking again to Laimea.  The guards were heavily armored and carried tall spears, and peered curiously at Legolas through squinted eyes.

            They questioned Laimea about his presence, and Legolas dismounted, startling them.  He walked toward the guards until he saw them tense, hands ready for their weapons.  But he merely folded his right arm across his chest and bowed low.

 "I am Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, and friend of Mithrandir," he introduced himself.

They stared at him for a moment.

"He is an Elf from the Woodland Realm," Laimea spoke up.  "I can speak for him if need be.  He was sent as a messenger from King Theoden of the Mark and Gandalf.  Best you let him pass with me, or suffer the displeasure of two such great men."

One guard stepped forward, looking over Legolas, and the Elf stood still as the man seemed to judge him.  The others sent looks to each other and Legolas heard more whispers atop the battlements on either side of the gates. 

But then the guard stepped back into place and nodded to the others, and they quickly pulled back the great iron gates, opening the way into Minas Tirith.  Legolas mounted his horse again and followed Laimea through.

Thus they wound through the roads of the city, first going south to pass through a gate in the next wall, and then going north to pass through the next after that, and so on.  Five such gates they passed through, and five times they rode through the tunnels carved through in the sharp out-thrust of rock that divided nearly all of the city's rings in two.  

After a time they entered the sixth circle of the city.  Laimea led him down the narrow road, between neat rows of houses, some occupied and some abandoned, until they reached a fair building Legolas recognized as the stables.  It was well built but not large, for the people of Gondor didn't have many horses.  But Legolas found the inside to be well to his liking.

There they both dismounted and housed their horses, and when they had finished wiping the lather of sweat from the horses' hides and filled the mangers Laimea turned to him.  "You will have to wait to speak to the Lord of Gondor until the morning," she said formally.  "But no earlier than one hour after sunrise."  

She exited the barn and Legolas went after her.  

"You can stay the night in one of our guesthouses.  This way."  She moved off down the quiet road, and Legolas walked beside her.  He watched her as they went.  She looked to the road in front of her, never shifting her gaze, a grave shadow on her face.

He wanted to break the rigid silence between them, to say something, anything.  But at the moment words seemed lacking for what he wanted to tell her.  To try would only make things worse.  He nearly reached out to catch her hand but restrained himself at the last moment, remembering her recoil from his touch earlier.  He swallowed hard, recalling how much that simple motion of rejection had hurt him.

He walked very close to her, his arm nearly brushing hers, and he became gradually aware of the sounds she made as she moved; her clothing shifting, her footsteps on the road, the soft noise of her sword falling against her leg with every step.  He listened to her sounds, focusing on them instead of ache in his chest that demanded he say the words clogging his throat.

Laimea was distinctly aware of how close Legolas walked beside her.  She tried to ignore it, but every now and then his elbow would brush her arm and she would snap a glare in his direction.  But he never looked at her.  His eyes were always staring straight ahead, out into the night, and once she'd realized that she'd solemnly resumed her own stare forward. 

The Elf's light boots made no noise on the road; he walked swiftly and silently.  She felt his presence though, and breathed in the smell of fresh earth that always seemed to cling to him.  She sighed heavily, feeling the weight of unsaid words press on her heart.  But she kept her mouth shut.  She would not break down now, not after she had gone so many days like this.  She had already made things hard enough for herself.  She would not make them any harder.

They came to a small stone house that hugged the outer wall of the Citadel and there Laimea stopped.  "Here you are," she said softly.  "You may stay the night here.  The Steward will see you in the morning, but no earlier than one hour after sunrise."  She paused awkwardly.  "I hope you find the bed satisfactory," she finished lamely.

Legolas turned to face her, looking down at her, and he stood there a long moment.  She met his eyes for the first time since outside of Rammas Echor, and saw a passing darkness in their blue depths.

"Laimea," he whispered finally, "I promised I would take you to Mirkwood."

Laimea blinked at the statement, surprised by it.  It had been a long time since they'd talked about that.  She shook her head wordlessly, unable to think of a proper response at the moment.

The Elf reached out gingerly, taking her hand in his cautiously.  She felt the touch acutely; his fingers against her palm, and her skin tingled.  She did not pull her hand away, she couldn't.  She'd missed the touch of him too much.

Legolas took a deep breath and faced her directly, turning very serious, tightening his hold on her hand.  "I may not be able to keep such a promise," he said truthfully.  "But if I can, I will.  When I have finished with my other duties, I will come back for you, and I will take you not only to Mirkwood, but to all the forests of the Elves."

Laimea stared at him, feeling new tears sting the backs of her eyes.  _I will come back for you_.  His eyes told her he believed he would honor his promise.  She swallowed her tears and struggled to control her voice as she spoke.  "Legolas," she croaked, "I . . . I don't think you should do that.  I don't think . . . I want to go anymore."

His face clouded and he let go of her hand, stepping back.  "Why not?" he asked worriedly.  "You were eager enough before."

_Before what?_ Laimea thought.  _Before I decided I was getting too caught up with him_.  She dropped her eyes to the road beneath them.  "I don't belong with the Elves, Legolas," she said aloud.  "I would only feel out of place.  We both have pressing matters elsewhere to attend to, and it would not do to have each one of us worrying about the other until we might meet up again."

Legolas cast his eyes away from Laimea's face at her last reasoning.  It reminded him hauntingly of Aragorn's words now four nights earlier.  Had Aragorn had the same discussion with her, or did she feel that way already?  Perhaps that's why she had been acting so strange towards him the past few days; she wanted to separate herself from him so she could forget him when he left.

Legolas did not like the feelings such a thought created.  The fact that he had even thought about doing the same thing to her only made him feel worse.  He straightened his shoulders and looked to her with hard eyes.  

"When I leave tomorrow, will you forget me?" he asked quietly, trying to mask the weight of the question.

Once again Laimea was completely taken off guard by his words.  She stood in a moment of confusion, her mind racing wildly.  She fought with herself briefly, then spit the word from her mouth as if it had a bad taste.  "Yes."

Legolas' jaw tightened.  "I cannot believe that," he argued immediately, a mix of despair and fragile hope in his voice.

"I am sorry Legolas," she said, feeling tears well into her eyes despite her efforts to stop them.  "I – I can't –"

He stepped forward and grabbed both of her hands, arresting her speech.

"I watched you last night," he told her.  "I saw your worry for me.  And you cannot forget our days together in the White Mountains . . . you cannot deny you have feelings for me."

Laimea stared up at him, mouth hanging open.  Blood pounded furiously past her ears, echoing her heartbeat in her temples.  What was he saying?  She remembered in a rush the first night he'd slept next to her and felt his arms around her once again.  She remembered the night he had gone out to scout the way ahead and how worried she'd been about him, how dark that night had been.  She remembered all the soothing Elvish words he'd whispered to her that night, how she'd stood wrapped in his arms for what had seemed like ages.  And she thought about the Orcs and the Uruk-hai and shuddered, vividly recalling that choking hand around her neck and then Legolas' worried looks as he tended to her wounds.

She realized with a shock something she'd never consciously admitted before.  He _cared_ for her . . . _he_ had feelings for _her_.

She shook her head helplessly under Legolas' intense gaze, feeling ever the more overwhelmed by the thought of this Elf feeling anything towards her.  "No, Legolas," she whispered.  "I cannot –"

"Laimea," he said quickly, as if suddenly afraid of her final answer, "perhaps we should do as you say, and go our separate paths, never to see each other again.  Perhaps I should put you out of my mind."  He gripped her hands.  "But I cannot.  I have tried, Laimea.  I cannot do it.  And I am asking you, will you not be able to think of me ever again once I leave this city?  Would you never want to see me again?"

Laimea pulled her hands from his, knowing his touch only weakened her.  Sobs squeezed her chest.  She backed away from him, shaking her head until her voice worked again.  "No Legolas!" she cried finally, hardly able to bear the pleading on his face.  "I cannot see you again.  I must not see you again."

He took a step forward but she backed farther away from him and he stopped, hesitating.  "I – I don't understand," he croaked weakly.

"I know the way of Elves," Laimea growled huskily.  "Your true devotion belongs to your own kind."  She gulped a breath, tears slipping unbidden from her lashes.  "You will leave this place, when it comes your time . . .  You will leave from that cursed shore like the rest of them before you, and you will sail far away beyond the reach of mortals, never to return!"

Tears choked her and Laimea let them come, powerless to stop them.  Sobs shook her shoulders and she raised her hands to her face, not wanting Legolas to see her this way.  But he went to her immediately and put his arms around her, hugging her shuddering body to his chest. 

Legolas held Laimea tightly, feeling the sobs that racked through her.  His own thoughts were chaos.  Had she been to the Grey Havens and seen the ships depart for Valinor?  But how . . . and why?  He couldn't dwell on it now; there were more important things he needed to see to.

He took hold of her shoulders and gently pulled her away from his chest.  He brushed stray strands of hair from her face and traced his fingers down her cheek, wiping away tears.  "Laimea," he said softly, as soothingly as he could, "you have no reason to fear.  My time for leaving is yet far off, past all the years of your lifetime and more."

She raised teary eyes to his, and their rich brown color seemed even darker.  "It will be sooner than you think," she choked out, "it always is.  Your kind is unwilling to deal with the war and death in this world.  You will grow weary of it, and so you shall sail away, leaving your worries here on the rest of us."

Legolas grimaced at her words.  Galadriel's message, given to him through Gandalf in Fangorn Forest, drifted back to him: _Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree in joy thou hast lived.  Beware of the Sea!  If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more_.  

He felt a sudden chill go through him.  _No_, he told himself firmly.  _You still have many things to do here.  It is not your time yet to leave._  He swallowed hard, hoping that was true, and gripped Laimea's arm tightly.

"Laimea," he tried again, putting all his heart into his words, "I would come back to you.  I will swear it if you wish me to."

She took in a long, shuddering breath and let it out slowly, taking his hand from her arm in her own and studying it as if seeing it for the first time.  For a moment Legolas thought she would agree to wait for him, but when she gazed back up to him he knew.

The grief in her eyes was like a black void, searching always for something it could never find.  He saw his own wavering reflection in her eyes, pale against those dark depths.  

"I cannot bring myself to trust the Elves, Legolas," she said hollowly, "no matter what I feel or what you promise.  I will not be hurt like that again."  Her tears had stopped and she stared down at his hand again, but the touch had gone cold.  It seemed suddenly to Legolas that everything had drained out of her; that all her energy had been spent, and she might collapse at any moment.  He thought about moving forward to steady her, but he could not bring himself to move.

He simply stood there, watching this woman before him.  Never had he felt at such a loss for words as he did that moment.

"This must be goodbye, Legolas," she whispered, filling the dead silence and releasing his hand slowly from her grip.  The Elf let his hand fall back to his side, feeling wooden.  She moved close to him, reaching out carefully to touch a lock of the flaxen hair lying over his shoulder.  Then she rose to her tiptoes and kissed his cheek lightly.  "Murtakk or elgi-u-galaz," she whispered.

With that she drew away and turned her back on him, walking swiftly down the road in the way they had come, until she vanished even from his sharp elvish sight.  

_Murtakk or elgi-u-galaz._

Legolas stood there a long while, staring off in the direction where Laimea had disappeared into darkness.  The place where her lips had met his skin burned and he raised his hand to it gingerly.  _Murtakk or elgi-u-galaz.  Dwarvish?  What did it mean?  If only Gimli had come to the city with him . . . _

He ached to go after her, knowing he could find where she lived easily.  The guards or other errand riders would know.  But he remained rooted in the spot he stood.  Going after her would not change her mind.  And begging was not in his nature.  Laimea had made up her mind, and in a way, made up his mind for him.  He'd not been willing to forget her, but she had detached herself from him, and now he had no other choice but to leave her behind . . . for good.

_Murtakk or elgi-u-galaz._

He sighed heavily, finally turning around to enter the guesthouse.  His movements were heavy and slow, and Legolas felt tired for the first time in a long while.  He went straight to the bed on the side wall and threw off his weapons, setting them on the floor next to him.  He lay down on the mattress and found it surprisingly soft.  He lied awhile in the dark, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling, and knew he'd never felt more confused and alone in all the long centuries of his life.

***

Legolas rose at the first hint of dawn's glow in his window.  He left the guesthouse, going weaponless, and crossed the street to the wall, looking out over the top of it.  He watched the sun rise over the dark horizon, marveling at the sight as the morning's light splashed against the walls of the city and cast the White Tower in a fiery blaze, reflecting off its pinnacle so brightly he had to squint against it.  He wished Aragorn would have come to see this, but the man's time would come.

He watched the sun climb slowly into the sky, revealing the purple sides of Mount Mindolluin that sheltered the fortress-city.  A bell tolled once loudly and the Elf startled, then realized it marked the first hour after sunrise.  His time here was running out.            Legolas made his way toward the stables and the tunnel entrance that led up to the final ring of Minas Tirith, the Citadel.  There lied the White Tower and the seat of the Steward of Gondor.  He walked slowly, looking around at the houses as he went.  A few people stirred, though mostly it was still only guards that patrolled the roads.

Those who were up and about stopped what they were doing to watch him pass, and Legolas felt slightly uncomfortable under their stares.  Each person saluted him reverently as he walked by, bowing their heads and putting their hands on their chests.  He returned their acknowledgements with nods.  Murmurs trailed in his wake, whispered in a strange language.  But some of it was said in the Common Speech, and that he understood: 

"It is true!  An Elf has come to our city . . .  War must be coming soon, for an Elf to come here in these times . . .  What news may he bring?  What news could an Elf have for the people of Gondor?  Times must be dark indeed . . ."

Legolas tried to ignore the words, but went more quickly toward the tunnel.

He passed shortly from the brightening light of the morning into the soft glow of the lamps that lined the tunnel to the seventh gate.  Tall, black robed guards with shining helms stood before that gate.  Legolas stopped before them, briefly wondering if they would let him pass.  But before he'd finished the thought they stepped aside, the wings on either side of their helms winking with silver fire as they moved.

Legolas moved past them, knowing someone, perhaps Laimea, had already told them of his coming.  As he walked through the gate he noticed the symbol emblazoned in white on their black coats: a blossoming white tree under a crown and many stars.  A faint smile touched his lips as he stepped onto the white-paved court.  It was the sign of the heirs of Elendil, and Legolas thought of Aragorn as King of Gondor.  He hoped it would one day come to pass.

Withdrawing from his thoughts Legolas paused in his walk, stopping before a small pool and fountain that splashed in the middle of the court.  Fine droplets leapt high into the air and caught the morning sun, flashing brilliant gold like tiny suns of their own before falling back into the pool.  He watched the fountain sparkle in the morning for a second and then moved on to the withered tree behind it.

Legolas went to the tree that was no longer white and blooming as its likeness had been on the black coats of the guards.  He reached out slowly to graze his fingers across the blackened trunk.  It was chilly and dark, a symbol of loss and mourning among the mass of green and blossoming plants surrounding it.  The barren branches reached like skeletal fingers toward the sky, as if groping yet for some kind of life.  The Elf pressed his palm against the trunk sadly.  There was no pulse of life beneath that bark.  It was as cold as Laimea's touch had become the night before.

Legolas pulled his hand away from the trunk at the thought, suddenly disturbed by the presence of the dead and twisted tree.  He left it and strode swiftly to the hall of stone made beneath the Tower.  

The door-wardens opened the way for him without question and Legolas passed through into a long and empty passageway.  His footsteps were soft against the pavement as he walked through the cool darkness.  He came next to a door of polished metal, and looking at it, he found no guards or wardens, nor servants to announce his presence to the Steward.  He rapped his knuckles uncertainly on the door's surface.  It swung open almost immediately and he stepped back in surprise, seeing no one there who would have opened them.

Legolas entered the wide hall beyond cautiously, moving between huge pillars of black marble and towering statues of kings long gone.  Deep windows along the side of the great hall cast dim shafts of the morning's light onto the stone floor, creeping between the feet of the statues.  Legolas saw at the front of the room three steps leading up to an elaborate throne, but off to his left side, on the first stair, rested a smaller chair of black stone.  On it sat an aging but stately man, holding a white staff with a golden knob in one hand.

The man watched the Elf approach, and as Legolas passed under the ever-stony gaze of the kings he felt uneasily out of place.  The tall, dark hall loomed around him, and as he took in more of its massive space he thought the place would swallow him.

He reached the Steward's chair after awhile and stopped to stand just before the man.  Then, folding his arm across his chest, Legolas bowed.  "My Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith," he said, his voice echoing slightly off the walls, "I am Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil the King of the Woodland Realm.  I come to you bearing a message from Gandalf and King Theoden of the Mark."

The man squinted, his eyes piercing beneath the gray brows as he looked over Legolas.  "So," the Steward spoke up finally, his voice low, "the rumors are indeed true.  An Elf has come to my city, bearing news.  The woman never mentioned you were an Elf.  I'd thought the gate-keepers had had too much ale at the daymeal.  But it appears they saw right after all."

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say in reply.  He thought of Laimea standing in the same place as he, telling the Steward of his arrival, perhaps just earlier that same morning.  He wondered where she was now.  Legolas realized his thoughts strayed and brought his focus back to the Steward quickly.

"The storm is upon us, my dear Elf," the man said ominously.  "The east grows darker with each passing day.  I have sent the women and children and all not fit to fight away to the south, to seek a haven there.  The last of them leave today.  Our streets are empty and our homes abandoned, Legolas of Mirkwood.  What news might you bring me in this dark hour?"

Legolas cleared his throat, sensing a deep gloom over the man before him.  It made the Elf uncomfortable.  He spoke.  "My lord, the trouble which your city prepares for has already found the people of Rohan.  They defeated the enemy, though many were lost in the fight."  He paused at the memory of the battle and drew in a deep breath.  "The people come your way now, as refugees and as allies to the people of Gondor.  You will not find their courage lacking."

Denethor nodded slowly, frowning in thought.  "I doubt it not," he said.  "It is good they are coming.  I had sent out a summons to Rohan in the hopes they would aid our defenses.  Ere now I had heard nothing in reply."

Legolas gave a reassuring nod to the man.  "They will come."

"Now tell me, Legolas of Mirkwood," Denethor went on, "how long will you be gracing my city with your fair presence?"

Legolas shifted on his feet again.  "I fear only shortly my lord.  I must leave ere the sun is nigh.  I have pressing business elsewhere that cannot wait."

The Steward leaned forward slightly in his chair.  "A pity," the man said.  "I should've liked to have talked with an Elf, and learned more of what I cannot see."

Legolas watched the man closely, and Denethor met the Elf's eyes.  They looked at each other for a long time; Legolas trying to figure out the meaning of the man's words, and the Steward looking to see if the Elf would know.

But after a moment Legolas said, "Mithrandir will hold counsel with you when he arrives.  I can say no more to you, for I know no more."

Denethor smiled grimly, as if he knew otherwise.  "Very well, Prince of Mirkwood.  I will not hold you from your other business.  I thank you for your message, and we will look for the coming of the people of Rohan."

Legolas nodded, stepping back and bowing again.  "Then I bid you farewell, my lord, until we meet again."

Denethor raised a pale hand.  "Until we meet again, my fair Elf."

Legolas turned and went quickly through the huge hall, passing through the door into the long pathway without a glance back.  He exited the tower into the morning sun and let the warmth of it spill over him.  The hall had left a sense of shadow on his being, but as he left the Tower behind and passed through the seventh gate the feeling slipped away, and Legolas attributed his unease to the huge room's likeliness to a never-ending cave.

He went back through the tunnel and emerged out the other side at the stables.  A few riders there were saddling their horses, and Legolas unconsciously scanned their faces and body shapes for the familiar one of Laimea.  But there were no big black horses among the riders' steeds and Legolas passed by them without stopping.  He went to the guesthouse he'd stayed in and retrieved his weapons, then went back out into the morning.

He glanced at the sun to note the time and then looked around at the rest of the city sprawled out below him.  People were about now, both guards and men of younger and older age.  The road south was beginning to fill with wagons and carts, and Legolas thought of what Denethor had just told him.

He realized suddenly that Laimea could have been sent away, that she could be in one of the wagons at that very moment, and he headed back immediately for the stables.  He reached the building just as the last rider was mounting up, and Legolas ran to man's side, catching hold of the reins.

"Hey!" the rider cried.  "What do you think you're –" the words faltered as the man saw who held his horse.  "Oh – I didn't see who–"

"Please," Legolas asked, ignoring the man's stammering apology, "would you know where the woman rider is this morning?"

"Laimea?" the man asked in confusion.

Legolas nodded vigorously.  The rider shrugged.  "She rode out early this morning.  I think she goes to deliver a message to Faramir."

"But will she go south with the others?" the Elf asked.

The rider chuckled.  "No, no.  Not her.  Gondor needs all of its riders these days.  She will be back later in the day, if you wish to speak to her."

Legolas stared up at the man, his mind working at the concept of being able to talk to Laimea again.  The horse fidgeted, eager to get going.  Legolas broke from his thoughts and released the reins, nodding to the rider.  "Thank you," he said.  

The rider turned his horse around and gave a final nod to Legolas, then went off down the road at a swift trot.

Legolas sighed and went into the barn.  His gelding nickered a greeting immediately and Legolas went to the animal's stall.  "Hello, Steadyfoot," he whispered, stroking the horse's nose absently.  Morsul's stall sat empty across the aisle.

The gelding shoved Legolas' shoulder hard with his nose and the Elf stumbled, then shot a glare in the horse's direction.  He came back to the gelding and patted its neck.  "Of course no one is more important than you," he told the animal reassuringly.      But his thoughts were on Laimea.  She would be back later in the day, the rider had said.  He could wait for her return.  Perhaps if he talked to her again she would understand . . . perhaps she would tell him how she'd come to be at the Gray Havens, if indeed she had been there, and why she felt the way she did about Elves.  Legolas stood a long time in uncertainty.  There was so much he wanted to ask her.  And if he never saw Laimea again, at least he could say goodbye to her properly.  

But then her words came back to him.

_I must not see you again.  This must be goodbye, Legolas._

He shook his head.  She had said goodbye last night.  He hadn't, but it was too late for that now.  And Aragorn and Gimli would be expecting him soon.  He couldn't stay in the city much longer.

_I cannot bring myself to trust the Elves, Legolas._

He turned about reluctantly and unlatched Steadyfoot's stall.  After their days of traveling together he would have never expected her to say something like that.  Why had she agreed to travel with him if she didn't trust the Elves?  Why had she talked to him so readily in the Mountains and allowed him to sleep beside her, only to tell him now that she never wanted to see him again?

Legolas led his horse from the barn with a touch on the neck and mounted with a heavy heart.  He felt deceived, and that made him feel foolish.  

He rode down to the Great Gates amid hails and shouts of farewell.  He paid them little attention, passing through the gates of Minas Tirith with Laimea still very much on his mind.  He held Steadyfoot to a slow pace, still feeling that perhaps he should turn around and wait for her.  But he could not bring himself to do it.  Laimea's bitter words still rang in his ears, and Legolas didn't think he could bear that look in her eyes again.  He couldn't stand to have her walk away from him like that again.

He didn't know what had caused that grief for her, but nonetheless it hurt him.  Her words had hurt him, and he resented the kiss she'd given him.  Legolas felt his determination grow the farther he rode from the city.  He would not go back.  He would not dwell on her.

But his eyes kept eagerly searching the roads around him and after awhile he realized he expected to see Laimea riding back from her errand.  He reached the gates of Rammas Echor without seeing her, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or saddened.

He rode northwest, having some idea of the path Aragorn and Gimli had taken, but as he crossed the plains the persistent tug still nagged at the back of his mind.  He stopped his horse and turned around to face the city.  He was only a mile or so away from the Outer Wall, but nearly four leagues separated him from the heart of city.  Still, he could see the guards moving in the battlements, and what people were left working on their homesteads in parts of the townlands.  A spot of red bright against the blinding white of the city's sixth circle caught his eye, and he squinted at it, shielding his eyes from the sun.

He blinked in surprise at the sight of Laimea standing there, looking out in his direction.  He felt her eyes on him, though he knew she couldn't see him as well as he could see her.  She wore a red dress, not her usual riding clothes, and her hair rested neatly along her back.  She looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her.

Legolas swallowed hard, feeling even more foolish as realization dawned on him.  He knew her look after riding well enough to know she had not gone riding at all that morning.  The rider had lied to him.

In a flush of anger Legolas spurred his horse back toward the gate in the Outer Wall, paying no more attention to Laimea's figure.  He arrived at the gate shortly and Steadyfoot skidded to a halt, startling the guards.  

"You!" Legolas demanded of one of them.  "Where went the rider that passed from these gates before me?"

The man looked to his fellows briefly, then took in the expression on the Elf's face and pointed along the road south.  "He went south," the guard said timidly, "toward Lossarnach.  But who he goes to see I know not."

Without another word Legolas spun his horse around and tore off in the direction the guard had pointed.  He galloped beside the wagons on the grassy rider path, heedless of the alarmed cries at his reckless speed.  He caught up to the rider swiftly, for the man rode only at an easy gallop, and Legolas came alongside the other's horse just as the man veered off the rider's path.

The rider looked over to the Elf in surprise and Legolas waved over at him.  "Halt!" Legolas called over the sound of pounding hooves.  "Halt your horse!"

The man reined his horse to a walk, seemingly bewildered by the Elf's sudden appearance.  Once they had slowed Legolas turned to the rider, his blue eyes flashing.  

"Why did you lie to me?" the Elf demanded harshly.

The man blinked and shook his head.  "I – I don't think I understand -"

Legolas maneuvered Steadyfoot in front of the man's horse, forcing him to stop, and trapped the rider under his glare.  "You lied to me about the woman," the Elf accused.  "Why?"

The man fidgeted, his fists tightening and untightening around the reins.  He licked his lips, looking behind him at the distance to Minas Tirith, and then turning back to Legolas.  "Do not be angry with me, my lord," the man pleaded, and Legolas found himself surprised by the proper title.  "You are right, she had no errand this morning.  But she asked me earlier in the day to tell you, if you came asking for her, that she'd gone out, and would be back later.  I only said what the lady requested."

Legolas stared at the man, disbelief coursing over him in numbing waves.  It was a long moment before he could bring himself to speak.  "She – she told you to lie to me?" he asked dumbly, unable to accept what the man was saying.

The rider nodded mutely.

"Why?"

The man shook his head again.  "I do not know.  She said nothing else about it."  The pity in the man's eyes was nearly more than Legolas could abide and the Elf turned away, feeling overwhelmed with all he had heard since the night before.  

"I thank you for this news," Legolas managed to choke out, forcing himself to look at the rider once more.  "May your errand be swift and safe."

The man gave a nod.  "Fair winds, Prince of Mirkwood," the man returned, and with that he went hurriedly off to resume his task.

Legolas sat on the back of Steadyfoot and stared at Minas Tirith shining among the fields.  He stared and thought of nothing, for he found he could not make sense of anything at the moment.  He only saw Laimea in his mind's eye, standing there at that wall looking out at him.  

It was remembering her last words to him that finally shook him out of his trance, and he sent his horse into a canter again, back toward the city.  But he did not enter it, merely passed around it to once again set out on his northerly path.

_Murtakk or elgi-u-galaz_.

Legolas urged Steadyfoot into a gallop once more, washing away her voice in the wind, determined to leave Laimea and all her unanswered questions behind with the city of Minas Tirith.  

He did not look back again.  
   
  



	7. Lonely Lingerings

**Authors Note:**  I apologize for the tardiness of posting this chapter!  I've been very busy with life stuff these past few months… blah… but anyway, here it is finally!  I hope everyone enjoys!  Thanks to Lu Am for beta-ing, and to all of you who were patient enough to keep checking back!  I hope there will never be such a long lag again!  And just remember, the fic isn't over until you see THE END!  So don't get worried if it takes awhile for me to update… I've also started an Orlando Bloom fanfic which is taking up more of time too, the link to that if you're interested will be posted under my Bio section on my ff.net profile!  Well enjoy, and thanks for your patience!  ^_^

Best, Lossefalme

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**Chapter Seven: Lonely Lingerings**

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Though Steadyfoot was not as fast as Arod Legolas covered nearly two days worth of land in a day and a night.  He'd ridden hard since first leaving the city, only pausing to look for signs that would assure him he was on Aragorn and Gimli's trail.  

Yet the miles of land now between him and Laimea had done nothing to lessen the turmoil within him.  She had been on his mind nearly the whole journey already, and no matter how fast he rode his horse away from her, her voice still echoed in his head and her image wavered before his eyes.  No matter what other things he tried to busy himself with, his focus always returned to the woman.  There were too many things she had said that he didn't understand, and a part of him regretted not going back to talk to her again.

Legolas prodded Steadyfoot into a trot again, but the weary horse was reluctant to speed up.  Legolas had become ever the more anxious to meet up with his friends, knowing a talk with Aragorn could settle his mind well enough.  The Elf had ridden Steadyfoot too hard, and knew it.  He let the horse drop into a walk again and patted it's sweaty neck sorrowfully.

"I am sorry, my good friend," he told the horse softly.  "We will rest soon, you have my word."

Steadyfoot made no answer, but kept his slow, plodding pace on through the night.  In the late hours of that night Legolas saw the dim glow of a small fire on the dark horizon some distance ahead.  He stopped his horse and watched a moment, then slipped off the animal's back and jogged ahead in the deepening dark.  He drew an arrow from his quiver and held it ready against his bow, creeping toward the fire slowly.

Steadyfoot followed him and Legolas waved the horse away, knowing it would make too much noise if the creators of the fire proved to be hostile.  Once the horse had resorted to grazing Legolas resumed his walk, crouching low to the grasses.

He'd gone only a few yards farther when the fire's glow abruptly went out, plunging the distance into blackness once again.  The Elf dropped flat to the ground immediately and stayed there, waiting and listening.  But nothing moved in the light of the moon save Steadyfoot, and the only sound was that of the insects on the plain.

Legolas crept carefully forward once again, his muscles tensed, moving ever closer to where the fire had been.  But as he drew nearer he saw no sign of Gimli or Aragorn.  Legolas searched the area ceaselessly with all his senses, growing more concerned with the passing of each silent moment.  He straightened from his crouch cautiously, his arrow strung and ready, his fingers twitching anxiously against the carved wood of his bow.

He came to the remains of the small fire and stood over the smoking ashes, looking around in confusion.  He circled the area once, then twice, searching vainly for any signs of who had been there.  It smelled of Aragorn and Gimli, yet they were nowhere to be found.  He wondered if they had decided to travel at night.  But then he would have heard hooves moving away in the darkness . . . Legolas sighed, silently admitting to himself Aragorn was a better tracker than he.

Perhaps in the daylight he would have been able to tell where they had gone . . . Legolas froze at a noise.  Then it came again, soft as a whisper and yet undeniable.  It was the restless shifting of a horse, followed by the briefest sound of footsteps on grass.  He crouched again, sweeping his gaze over the land around him.  He went toward the sound quickly.

He'd nearly reached it when a voice stopped him cold.

"Halt and identify yourself!"

Legolas spun toward the voice instinctively, arrow raised, but then he lowered the weapon hastily as he recognized the voice.  "Do not fire!" he called out.  "It is I, Legolas, come from Minas Tirith."

Aragorn stepped out into full sight from behind a boulder not far away.  Legolas watched his friend come down the small rise toward him and scolded himself for not realizing the boulder as an obvious shelter.  The man put away his bow and arrow and Legolas did the same.

"We guessed it was you," Aragorn said quietly, "but thought it wise to be sure before revealing ourselves."

Legolas nodded in understanding, looking around subtly for Gimli.  "Why did you move from the fire?" he asked, concerned he'd lost his focus enough to have given himself away to them while still at a distance.

But Aragorn put that fear to rest.  "We have done so the past two nights.  A fire on these plains is too easily seen, as you have proven even this night.  We have built only brief fires, and then we make our camp elsewhere, so that the flame cannot be a beacon to any chance wonderers."

Legolas nodded again, and still having seen not a hair of the Dwarf, finally asked, "Where is Gimli?"

"Ha!" came a shout, and Legolas whirled to his right.  Gimli appeared over another small rise, using the long handle of his axe as a walking stick to aid him up the incline.  He stopped at the top, fixing Legolas with a haughty smile and leaning on his weapon.  "What is this?  You mean the Elf did not already know we were here?  It seems this Dwarf does not breathe so loudly as your Elven kin had thought!"

Legolas half smiled at Gimli's last statement; pride overflowed the Dwarf's voice for having supposedly proved Haldir's accusation false.  But the statement also did more to disturb Legolas . . . had Gimli simply gotten better at being stealthy, or had his attention been so divided of late he'd missed the obvious?

Legolas swallowed hard at the thought.  He could not allow himself to be so distracted.  Not when such a thing could be life threatening to himself or his friends.  

Aragorn saw the change in the Elf's face and frowned.  "What is it?" he asked in concern.  "Did you not find peace in your farewells?"

Legolas stared at Aragorn mutely for a moment, knowing the man spoke of Laimea.  His jaw clenched as the memory of her parting went through his mind for the millionth time since he'd left Minas Tirith.  He cleared his throat and answered solemnly.  "There is little peace to be had anywhere in these times, Aragorn.  And farewells are oft unwanted and bitter."  The Elf let out a deep breath.  "Mine was no different."

Aragorn frowned at the words, his brow creased with either confusion or worry.  "What did you tell her about Mirkwood then?" the man asked, obviously referring to the discussion they had had before.

Legolas brought his gaze back to Aragorn briefly and saw his friend already knew what he would say.  Legolas turned away, walking several steps before once again facing both Aragorn and Gimli.  "I told her I may not be able to keep that promise," he admitted.  "But I also told her that if I was at all able, and my duties allowed it, I would keep it, and go back for her."

Gimli's eyes widened at the statement, but Legolas watched Aragorn, and held the man's steady stare with his own.  

"But it matters not," Legolas added, and his voice cut.  "She refused my invitation.  It seems she has deceived me these many long days, for not until we reached the city did I learn she loathes my kind, and would no longer accept my company or my counsel.  That was her farewell to me!"

Legolas whirled away from his friends, unable to face them at the moment, and walked a few steps, struggling to gain control of the sudden anger that had taken hold of him.  He forced the tight fists of his hands to open and inhaled the night air deeply.  A distinct silence stretched out between the three of them, but a long moment passed before Legolas turned around to once again face Aragorn and Gimli.  

"I am sorry," the Elf said quietly, somber but free of the hurt that had darkened his fair features just earlier.  "I did not mean to speak so harshly."

Aragorn shook his head dismissively.  "All is already forgiven, my friend."

Legolas gave the man a grateful nod, and another odd silence fell on them.  Gimli looked from Legolas to Aragorn, and then, unable to bear the quiet any longer, he spoke: "Legolas . . . am I to take it you had invited the lady of Gondor to your home of Mirkwood?"

"Ai," Legolas acknowledged quietly.  "I had."

Gimli contemplated what had been said again.  "But how could she refuse such an invitation?" he asked.  "And if what you tell us of the lady Laimea is true, and I'm sure it is, then why do you suppose she wouldn't have said such things to you sooner?"

Legolas turned to look into the far distance where Minas Tirith rested, now many leagues away.  He shook his head, feeling his previous frustration replaced by a deep sadness he did not fully understand.  "I do not know why, Gimli," he answered.  "She said many things I did not understand."  He brought his eyes back to Gimli suddenly, remembering the odd phrase Laimea had spoken, and his bright gaze sharpened with eagerness.  "Gimli, my friend," the Elf said, "I would ask of you a favor."

The Dwarf arched his thick eyebrows.  "And what favor would you ask of me, Legolas?"

Legolas very carefully asked the question he'd been dying to find the answer to since the strange words had left Laimea's mouth.  "I would ask you to tell me, if you can, what you make of the phrase _murtakk or elgi-u-galaz_?"

Gimli's eyes widened and Legolas stepped toward his friend readily, unable to stop himself.  "Then you can understand it?"

Gimli looked up to the much taller Elf, a small smile on his lips.  "Well yes, Master Elf, I understand it.  Despite your muddled pronunciation of the words, they are of the Dwarvish tongue."

Legolas ignored Gimli's soft rebuke, too interested in learning the meaning of the words to care at the moment.  "Please," he asked the Dwarf, "I beg of you, tell me of what they speak.  Their meaning has been a maddening riddle to me since I left that city."

"I fear the meaning would depend greatly on who spoke such a thing," Gimli informed his anxious friend.

Legolas tilted his head to once side, eying the Dwarf suspiciously.  But his curiosity was too great, and he had a secret hope the translation of these words would hold some kind of clue to Laimea.  "The lady Laimea of Gondor spoke them," Legolas finally told Gimli, "as her last words to me."  There was an odd tone of defensiveness in this voice at the statement, but if the others noticed they said nothing about it.

Gimli stroked his beard, his face falling into concentration for a moment.  Then he shook his head slowly, though the barest of smiles still remained.  "Hrmm," he murmured at last.  "Then I think such words are best explained by the sweet lips that first spoke them."

Legolas peered at Gimli, wondering at his friend's strange reply.  _Sweet lips?_ Legolas thought, and he mentally shook his head.  Laimea's lips had been anything but sweet that night.  Even her kiss, which he had found himself wishing for in the days before they reached Minas Tirith, had stung that night.  If what she had said to him was indeed all true, her lips had only spoken lies to him before, and had never been sweet.

He swallowed hard, his eyes once again focusing on Gimli, who stood waiting patiently.  "Then you will not tell me the wards in a tongue I can understand?" Legolas asked once more, his voice subdued with disappointment.

Gimli shook his head again, raising one eyebrow.  "If she had wanted you to know the meaning of such words, friend Elf, then she would have spoken them to you in Elvish."

Legolas scowled at the smart remark.  "Then why say anything at all, if the person you are speaking to won't understand your words?" he demanded.

Gimli snorted.  "Perhaps you should ask your Elven kindred in Lothlorien that question," he said.  "I seem to remember them speaking many words I did not understand when we first reached that forest."

Legolas shook his head once.  "They did not do it with the intent to confuse any of us.  They knew Aragorn and I would understand at least."

Gimli straightened his stance.  "But they knew full well that we Dwarves know little of Elvish, just as your kind know even less of my tongue, and still they spoke those foreign words, having not the courtesy to use a language all of us could understand!"

Legolas moved toward Gimli, fully prepared to argue the subject, but Aragorn stepped in between them, stopping the dispute with a stern look.  

"Gentlemen," the man warned softly, "I think it would be best if we camp, and get some rest.  We must set out ere the dawn, and it is already nearly upon us.  We still have a long ride till Isengard."

Legolas watched Gimli silently for a second more, and the Dwarf met his eyes evenly.  But then the Elf turned to Aragorn and nodded, letting go of his frustration toward Gimli and his immediate want to discuss Laimea with Aragorn.  That could wait until another day.  Aragorn was right, they still had a long ride to Isengard; he had many days to talk about her, and then he would have many more days after that to try and get her out of his mind.

The thought offered little comfort to him though as the three of them moved behind the boulder and putdown their sleeping blankets.  Legolas volunteered to watch first, as he knew he would not be able to sleep with so much of what Laimea had said still unsettled in his mind.  There was little talking after that, only a swift exchange of goodnights before Aragorn and Gimli both lied down, obviously exhausted.

When their breathing had fallen to the slow and even pace of slumber Legolas climbed up to sit on top of the boulder, looking out to the east across the broad expanse of the nearly flat plains.  They sky above offered little light from stars or moon, but the impenetrable blackness of the White Mountains could still be seen rising up in jagged lines off to his left.  He followed their shape westward to look behind him, where far away the Misty Mountains also blotted out a section of sky, leaving only a small area of open sky between them . . . the Gap of Rohan.  

Legolas thought of their time in Edoras and sighed.  That seemed like so long ago, as did even the battle of Helm's Deep now.  He looked again to the White Mountains, thinking of his first days of travel with Laimea.  Gandalf had meant his journey with the woman to give him something to do while the others were busy repairing the fortress . . . it had been meant as a distraction from the mass graves of Elves and Men, from the guilt he felt at having to see the broken wall every dawn, the wall he still felt should not have fallen.

Legolas closed his eyes wearily.  Laimea had surely distracted him from it, but here it was again, that familiar feeling of having done less than he could have to prevent that Orc from getting through.  And now he had left Laimea behind in Minas Tirith, as had been his duty, but it still felt wrong.  He contemplated the rider's message again and went over his conversation with Gimli that night. 

_I should have gone back, _he thought in dismay.  _She left a message for me, no matter if it was a lie or not.  It was a message . . . perhaps she had wanted to talk to me again._  Legolas frowned to himself.   _But then why would she have lied about her whereabouts?  _He shook his head finally, unable to understand the reasoning behind it and tired of trying to figure it out.

_But I lied as much as she,_ he thought sadly.  _I told her I would come back for her, and then I did not even wait for her after hearing her message.  I should have waited for her, regardless of what she'd said to me before._  Legolas stood on the boulder, suddenly flooded with regret, and looked toward the city, straining to catch merely a glimmer of one of its towers.  He longed to ride back and talk once more to Laimea, as he was now sure he should have done when he'd had the chance.  But that also would have to wait now, if it would ever happen at all.

Legolas squinted, searching for one last glimpse of Minas Tirith before he and his friends turned their backs on it for good.  But he saw nothing save endless shades of black overlooked by the faint stars above.  The city had been lost in the distance, and he feared Laimea had been lost with it.

***

            Laimea sat on the old stone bench under the wavering shade of her family's orchard, staring out at the neat rows of trunks and breathing in the sweet scent of the fruit trees.  She gripped the haft of her sword in her right hand, the blade laid bare across her skirt on her lap, sparkling as the shadows of the sun moved over it.  But she wasn't looking at the sword, or at the trees with their dark green leaves.  Her eyes focused inward on memories, both old and new.

            It had been three days since Legolas had ridden away from her, and yet the grief of his departure had not lessened with the passing of the days.  She had watched him ride away; then saw him turn around once, and for the briefest of moments her heart had leapt in hope, for he had ridden back to the city.  But as she stood longer at that wall, looking out to the northwest, feeling her heart pounding furiously in her temples, she had seen him once again riding away, and he didn't look back.

            Laimea sighed heavily.  A breeze kicked up and blew her skirt against her legs.  She looked down to the sword on her knees, but she didn't notice the beauty of such a spring day.  Legolas had opened an old feeling of emptiness within her the night he'd told her he'd come back for her, and nothing seemed the same as it had been before.  It was a void Laimea had never been able to fill or heal, but over the years she had learned to ignore it.

Until she'd started to feel too strongly for Legolas.  Until he'd offered to take her to all the forests of the Elves . . .   

Laimea looked down to the sword on her knees, running her finger along the engraved Elvish script.  Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head, physically as well as mentally refusing them.  Legolas had invited her to Mirkwood at the beginning of their journey, and then she had accepted, thinking it would not hurt to go someplace she had never been.  But that was before she'd gotten so close to him . . . and visiting an elvenhome would be difficult enough as it was _without _going in the company of an Elf she'd gotten so attached to.

 Laimea raised a hand and pressed it to her forehead, as if she could push away all such torturous thoughts of Legolas and his kindred.  It had been a huge mistake to allow him to travel with her, she realized now.  His presence had brought up memories long forgotten, and had rekindled feelings she had hoped to bury forever.  Going to Mirkwood with him would have been too much to bear, and if she had dared to go with him to any of the other Elf havens of Middle-Earth, Laimea wasn't sure she'd even return.

And so she had bared her feelings to him that night in front of the guesthouse, and made herself refuse his offer to come back for her, though it killed her to do it.  She'd seen the look in his eyes as he'd made his promise, seen the look of agony on his flawless face as she spoke of her mistrust of his kind, and it had haunted her dreams.

She'd asked the riders at dawn the following morning to tell Legolas, if he asked about her, that she'd gone riding and would be back later if he wished to talk to her.  And then she had waited.  The message was not entirely true, for she had not ever gone out that morning, but she knew Legolas had to leave and wanted to see if he would wait for her.  She'd been confident that if he were sincere about his feelings for her he would wait those few hours to talk to her again.  He had, after all, just told her the night before he would return to her after an indefinite amount of time.

But when she had deemed it safe to head back into the city from her house in the townlands the guards were already whispering about the Elf's strange departure.

Laimea swallowed hard, her throat aching with dismay.  She had rushed to look out from a high wall as fast as she could, and there he'd been, a far off white speck against the wide spread of green.  She'd learned later he had gotten her message, but he had not waited for her.  He had left. 

_But you_ told _him to leave_, she reminded herself, gritting her teeth against the misery rising in her chest.  _You told him you could never see him again, that you didn't_ want _to see him again.  Perhaps he was only honoring your wishes, despite what he feels for you.  Why would he want to see you again after you spoke so harshly to him that night?  Why would he come after you when you told him goodbye already?_

She raised teary eyes to the branches above her head.  _No, he heard your message.  He knew you would talk to him again, if he'd wait.  And if he had really cared, wouldn't he have come to find you no matter what you had said?_  Laimea squeezed her eyes shut, letting the wind caress her face, wishing the breeze could take her worries with it.  The same such thoughts had been tormenting her endlessly for the past three days.  

She had tried repeatedly to convince herself Legolas had not really felt anything for her, and she had never really felt anything for him.  It had merely been a passing infatuation.  Legolas had left the city and would not be back.  She had other duties to see to, and could not afford to be distracted by him.

But no matter what her mind tried to argue, her heart remained the same.  Legolas had taken something of her with him at his departure.  For though she had not known it at the time, Laimea now realized why being with Legolas over her journey had felt so natural.  He was the only one who had ever been able to fill that missing part of her.  She had never felt out of place when with him, and the nearly constant restlessness in her mind had calmed at the mere sight of him.  He had made her feel at _home_, no mater where they were at the time.

Now he was gone, and even as the hoof beats of his horse had faded, she'd been struck by an acute loneliness; her restlessness had returned stronger than ever.  And even now, as she sat in the orchard, she sensed a pull on her heart she'd not experienced since she had first moved to Gondor.  Homesickness.

Laimea stood from the bench, her hand gripping Nimrunya so hard her knuckles paled.  _Do not think of such things_, she willed herself.  _Do not think of that or of Legolas_.  _He is an Elf.  _ _You must forget him!  He will live on long after you have gone, and you will pass from his mind as the night passes before the sun!  _

She raised her sword in front of her and looked at it sadly.  It was the lone reminder of her life before Gondor, and she both treasured it and hated it.

_And even if we were together, _she continued in the internal argument,_ what would happen when he had the chance to leave these shores?  How do you know he wouldn't take it?  How do you know he wouldn't leave you behind, just like you were left behind all those years ago?_

            Warm tears slid down her cheeks at the memory and Laimea dropped the sword, both hands going to her face as sobs threatened to break her composure.  But she could not stop them this time, for one memory led to another and in a rush all the things she had never wanted to remember came back to her more vivid than ever.

They had all left her, and she was alone again.  She dropped next to a tree and wept as she had not done since she was a child. 

The moon rose high above the city, casting the restless movements of the guards in a dim silvery shadow and peeping through the full leaves of the apple tree to spill its dappled white light on Laimea, who still sat cradled between the tree's great roots.

Her tears had stopped long ago, yet she had not moved from her curled position against the tree trunk.  She stared straight ahead, eyes riveted on the blade of Nimrunya, gleaming white as bone in the night.  She did not think anymore, but had slipped into the exhausted stupor of one whose whole emotional energy has been spent.  She could do nothing but stare at that sword and listen to the sounds of the night; in the rustle of the trees she heard whispered those hateful words: _Do not follow me . . . do not ever follow . . . you must remain . . . _

Laimea fancied she could hear the lap of ocean waves even now, though she knew that was impossible.  The ocean was many hundreds of leagues away.  Yet she smelled the salt of sea air instead of the sweet fruit trees, and though she knew where such thoughts took her, she could not stop them, because she had no more desire to fight them.  

She merely sat there; the rough bark against her back, the cool grass against her feet, and let herself feel instead the warm planks of the dock on her toes and the smooth wood of the boat beneath her hand.  Grief stabbed through her as the boat drew away from her, the wood slipping from her grip.  She watched in despair as the massive but graceful vessel slowly pulled away from the dock.  And then, almost without thinking, she leapt into the cold water of the sea, making one last effort to stop the huge white ship and the passengers it carried.  

Anya her nurse screamed in alarm, knowing Laimea would drown before she ever caught the boat.  But an Elf had already dived in after the child and caught her up in his arms, pulling her out of the water and up onto the sand of the shore.  Laimea fought him the whole way, but she was only a child and had no hope of overpowering the Elf or her nurse, who came at once to take a hold of her and keep her from swimming out again.

Laimea continued to struggle against her nurse even as the words floated over the sound of the waves: _Stay on the shore, Laimea!_  The strong voice commanded.  _Go not to the Sea!  You must not follow, for my sake!  You must remain on the shore, and never follow!  Never follow!_

The words faded as the boat drew farther and farther away from her, shining white on the blue ocean like the morning star in the dawn.  And slowly even its bright shape sailed from sight, disappearing into the far reaches of the endless sea.  "No!" she screamed, her child's voice so loud and heart broken even the Elves on the dock had flinched.  "No!  Wait!  I want to go with you!"  There had been no answer.

Laimea choked at the sense of loss tearing through her once again and squeezed her eyes shut.  Never had she felt so alone then at that single moment when that ship had vanished over the horizon.

_You cannot go where I go, Laimea.  You must never try to follow, do you understand?  The Sea is death . . . Never follow!_

"Laimea?"

She startled at the soft voice, waking from her deep thoughts suddenly.  She blinked, bringing her eyes around toward the voice.  Anya walked in her direction, holding up her long skirts above the grass so they wouldn't get dirty.  For a moment Laimea thought Anya was only another vision, awakened from the past, but as her old nurse drew nearer Laimea saw the age that had begun to take hold of the other woman, and she knew this was the Anya of the present.  

The older woman had remained at Laimea's side since that painful day at the Gray Havens and over the years Laimea had taken to thinking of her as a mother.  Most people in Gondor believed Anya to be Laimea's biological mother, for she looked very much like Laimea in appearance.  Very few save Gandalf knew the truth, and Laimea preferred it that way.  

The now elderly woman came to sit on the stone bench Laimea had occupied just earlier that day, looking grave.  She glanced to the sword lying bare in the grass and then looked back to the young woman she'd taken in as her own daughter.

"Laimea," Anya asked in concern, "what is it that keeps you here so late into the night?"

Laimea shook her head, still struggling to come back from her thoughts.  She did not want to speak about anything that had happened on her return journey from Helm's Deep, or about her recent recall of the Grey Havens.  "It is nothing," she said wearily, wishing her mother would leave her alone to brood.

But Anya wouldn't accept the simple dismissal.  "I know something is wrong, child.  You have been walking the orchard every day since you returned, and only troublesome things keep you out under these trees when you could be in your bed." 

Laimea met her foster mother's dark eyes and saw the worried lines that creased the aging face.  They both remembered well their first months in Gondor, when Laimea, though she was barely over ten years old, would wonder far into the townlands at all hours of the night and worry Anya very nearly to death.  Since then Laimea had taken to sitting in the orchard for long hours when something bothered her.  But even with her mother's observation of her characteristic behavior Laimea did not admit to the thoughts that had kept her up the past few nights.

"I have heard people talking of you standing up there on those walls," Anya whispered.   "They say you are watching for something."  She paused briefly.  "Or for someone," she added meaningfully.

Laimea still did not reply, knowing that trying to deny it would not sound convincing.

"And I have heard rumors," Anya continued quietly, carefully, "about who you brought back with you out of the west."

Laimea's eyes sharpened and she felt her heartbeat quicken at the mere thought of Legolas.  She remembered the nights she'd lied next to him, enjoying his closeness far too much.  She remembered the feel of his palm against her cheek, the softness of his hair beneath her fingers, the gentle sound of his song as he soothed her into sleep.  She cleared her throat, finally being stirred to speak.  "Only a messenger," she said thickly, knowing he'd become so much more to her over the time they'd spent together.  "I brought a messenger to the Steward from King Theoden of the Mark, that is all."

"Yes," Anya agreed slowly, "a messenger.  But a very special messenger, if the rumors are true.  For news travels fast in a city when someone so unexpected and rare shows their face."  She looked at Laimea pointedly, but Laimea refused to comment, thinking her mother knew nothing of how very special a messenger Legolas was.

"You brought back an Elf," Anya finished flatly, and her eyes were pained with an old sorrow, for she had cried nearly as many tears as Laimea at that shore.

Laimea shook her head helplessly, swallowing hard.  "I did not choose the messenger, Mother," she said quietly.

"Perhaps not.  But you did choose your traveling companion."

Laimea held Anya's eyes evenly.  "It was necessary," she said simply, but she wondered how things would have turned out if she had forbid Legolas to come with her that night they'd first met.

"Was it necessary?" Anya asked, as if reading Laimea's thoughts.  "Was it not possible for you to give King Théoden's message yourself?"

Laimea looked away from the older woman's gaze, frustrated by the question.  She had wondered that herself long ago, and she answered her mother with the same answer she'd given herself.  "Gandalf requested it," she said.  "Perhaps the Elf was given some secret message I knew naught of."

Anya's eyes narrowed at the mention of Gandalf, but she reluctantly conceded the point.  "Perhaps," she admitted slowly.  "Yet you chose to travel at his side, despite the grief his kind has caused you.  And now you wonder the city walls and this orchard like a lost soul.  Do not think I am fool enough to believe this behavior of yours has not been caused by him."

Laimea looked to her hands, found they were clasped together tightly.  She did not answer her mother, but Anya needed no answer.  

"Tell me, my child, is it he you look for when you go the wall?"

Laimea forced herself to separate her entangled fingers and lied them in her lap, straightening her shoulders as she looked back up to her foster mother.  "He has gone," she said tonelessly.  "I look for no one."

Anya shook her head and sighed deeply.  "And yet I know better than to believe that," she said quietly.  "I feared this would happen one day, Laimea.  I feared that despite all my warnings to you, despite all the warnings that must be in your own heart, you would not be able to resist the lure of the Elves."

Laimea stood fast, her body suddenly hot with rage at Anya's accusation.  "The lure of the Elves?" she spat incredulously.  "How little you know me, and I call you mother!"

"Laimea," Anya tried to protest, but Laimea gave her no time to talk.

"Do you think you are the only one who remembers that day?" Laimea demanded harshly.  "It is burned into my mind like a nightmare, one I've relived both waking and dreaming a thousand times over since we came to Gondor!  You brought me here, to this country of Men, as far away from all Elves as you could get me, and surrounded me with human things, hoping to bury the other part of me . . . hoping to help me forget . . . hoping to help yourself forget!"  Laimea shook her head, feeling the sting of tears once more.  Her voice wavered as she spoke again.  "But living among Men does not make one forget something that is already a part of them."

Anya stared at Laimea, her mouth open in shock and horror at what she was hearing.  But Laimea no longer cared for what Anya thought about such things.

"Why should I resist the influence of the Elves when I share their blood?" Laimea asked plaintively.  "And yet I have tried to ignore that fact for years, Anya!  Since we left those great green forests I have struggled to bury the desire within me to return to them, and I have fought my own feelings of both good and ill toward the race of Elves, not knowing which I should feel!  It was I who sent Legolas away, Mother.  _I _sent him away, though he would have come back for me, because I did not trust him enough to believe him . . . I did not trust the feelings in my heart."

Anya gasped aloud at the confession spewing from her daughter's lips, but Laimea was impervious to the stunned expressions racing across the older woman's face.

"Yes," Laimea admitted in a hiss, "I had feelings for him - an Elf - but I would not let myself realize them."  Laimea stopped abruptly, surprised at how the words sounded aloud.  But it was the truth, and she was tired of trying to hide it.  She turned back to her mother, who still sat speechless on the bench.  "I, like you, believed I could hide here in Minas Tirith and continue living in denial of the other half of my heritage."  She swallowed hard. "I will forever carry the hurt they caused me," she whispered raggedly, "but being with Legolas made me realize I can no longer hide from the Elves, and I no longer wish to."

Anya blinked, frowning deeply.  "What - what do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.

Laimea picked up her sword, running a hand down the curve of it.  "I knew Legolas would come back for me, but I was still too afraid to let myself believe him.  I sent him away because I was scared of what might happen if I spent more time in his presence.  I had already started to trust him, as I had done with his kind before, and that frightened me.  I didn't want to be left again.  But now in his absence I have thought of many things."  She sighed and met Anya's eyes with her own.  "I might have been hurt by the Elves long ago, Mother," she murmured softly, "but Legolas reminded me of all the good in his kind.  He reminded me of all the things I used to love about them.  I long to visit our old home, to gaze upon the faces of those I used to know."

Anya stood from the bench, her face very pale, wringing her hands together as she did only when she was very distressed.  "Laimea please," the woman begged, "do not mistake the longing in your heart for love.  It is only the longing of a mortal for that which they cannot have, and that which an Elf possesses . . . immortality.  The rest of us thirst for it, and being in the presence of the Elves sometimes blinds us to our own mortality.  That is what drew your mother to them, and now you have been taken up by it just as she was.  And living with the Elves did not save her."

Laimea glared at Anya, her throat clogging in fresh grief as she thought of her mother's last days, of the unease that radiated from the Elves at having death so close among them, and being unable to stop it.  A tear rolled down her cheek and she did not wipe it away.

"And what of this Elf you speak of," Anya continued.  "You said yourself you did not trust him . . . would you go and be with him among his people only to watch them live without the decay of time, and yet see yourself grow older with each passing day?  You would die, and he would live on to love again.  You would be no more than a passing blossom of spring to him, and yet you wish to make him your whole life?"

Laimea shook her head, swallowing back tears, but they blurred her vision anyway.  "No . . ." she croaked, but then hesitated.  "I don't know . . ."

"And what of this Elf should he choose to leave these shores?  What then would you do?"

Laimea slumped to the ground again, the sword in her lap, and let the tears spill from her lashes for the second time that night.  "It doesn't matter," she whispered helplessly.  "He has departed from me already."

Anya's stern expression melted into one of sympathy and she came to kneel beside Laimea, stroking a curled strand of golden-brown hair from the distraught face.  "Oh Laimea," the woman whispered, "I am sorry for making you think of such things.  But I fear for you.  I do not want to see you hurt again."

Laimea brought her eyes up to Anya's face and drew in a deep breath.  "But I am always hurting, Mother," she said heavily.  "Legolas was the only one who could take that hurt away, and I told him to leave despite what I feel for him . . . because I am afraid to feel it."  She looked down to her toes in the grass.  "I told him I would forget him when he left.  And oh how I have tried to do so!  But I cannot."  She sighed heavily, raising her tired eyes to look at the stars through the holes in the leaves above.  "I cannot make myself forget him, Mother," she said sadly, "and that is what I fear most of all."

***

            Legolas remained silent throughout the third day of their journey to Isengard; in fact he hardly noticed Aragorn and Gimli's presence at all.  In the morning he nodded wordlessly in consent to Gimli's request to ride with him, and then went the rest of the day seemingly unaware of their company.  He stared out at the way ahead with a stony gaze, his face dark.

            Aragorn and Gimli also said nothing, knowing better than to try to prod Legolas into saying anything, and yet feeling it wrong to talk to one another while he was so disturbed.  It was hardest for Gimli to remain silent, and he often opened his mouth with the intent of starting up some conversation.  But always he found himself at a loss for what to say, and in the end he would not say anything and simply sigh in frustration.  

            And so they made their way north and west, toward the dark tower of Orthanc, until when the moon had risen nearly to the pinnacle of the night sky they stopped to camp.  They did not make a fire, judging themselves to be too close to Isengard, and ate lembas instead of meat.  

            Legolas did not eat, but went immediately away from the camp to stand on a small hill overlooking the approaching dark canopy of Fangorn Forest.  Gimli watched Legolas as he walked away and then turned to Aragorn worriedly.

            "I've never seen him this way before," Gimli hissed in a half whisper, knowing Elf ears were very sharp.  "Do you suppose my words the other night were too harsh?"

            Aragorn sat on his blanket in the grass, reclining easily with pipe in hand, though they had run out of tobacco long ago.  The Man turned the pipe over in his hands thoughtfully.  "No, Gimli," he finally answered the Dwarf slowly, "I don't think it is your words weighing on his mind."

            Gimli looked off to where Legolas stood, now only a dark silhouette against the sky, and then again looked to Aragorn.  "You think it is the woman then?"

            Aragorn's clear blue eyes met Gimli's and he nodded slowly.  

            The two of them had fallen asleep before Legolas came back to them, but Aragorn awoke at the approach of soft footsteps and watched as the Elf sat down near him.  But he said nothing, knowing Legolas would talk when he was ready.  He had nearly drifted off to sleep again when the Elf spoke.

            "I do not understand it, Aragorn."

            Aragorn opened his eyes, turning to look at his friend.  But still he remained silent, waiting for Legolas to go on.

            "Why would she at first accept my offer to take her to Mirkwood, and then later refuse it?" Legolas demanded suddenly.  "Why would she allow me to travel with her if she does not trust my kind?  And how does she know our language then, and why does she speak it?"

            Aragorn sat up on his blanket at last, hiding the smile that tempted his lips.  He found it slightly amusing to see Legolas so upset over this woman.  The Elf had hardly flinched in the face of the water creature outside of Moria, or in the face of the cave troll inside the mines, and he had not hesitated to fight hundreds and thousands of roaring Uruk-hai alone . . . but this one woman could unsettle his composed manner with just a few words.  The thought certainly had mirth to it.

            "She has an Elven blade as well," Aragorn commented simply.

            Legolas squinted across at him, obviously not following the man's train of thought.

            "We spoke of her before," Aragorn explained quietly, "and I supposed she had been brought up among the Elves.  I still hold to that belief."

            Legolas sat back, nodding finally in understanding.  "And I had mentioned I thought there was something more than that," he said.  "On the way to the city she insisted on riding Elf-fashion.  She nearly killed herself, and yet at the end I think the horse did hear her, and listen to her."  Legolas swallowed visibly, sitting forward again.  "Aragorn," he said, his voice falling into a whisper, "none but Elves and Gandalf have I ever seen ride like that."

            Aragorn leaned forward as well, meeting Legolas' eyes to try and see his friend's thoughts.  He was surprised at the intensity of the Elf's gaze.  "Then you think . . . she is _peredhil_?" he asked softly.

            Legolas nodded once.  "I suspected it before, but now I am almost certain of it.  And it would explain how and why she might have gone to the Grey Havens."

            Aragorn furrowed his brow in surprise.  "What do you mean?"

            Legolas looked down to his lap, absently running the fingers of his right hand over the designs etched into the leather gauntlets he wore.  "She spoke of my kin leaving this land," he said unhappily, " . . . leaving to a place where mortals could not follow.  She thought . . ." Legolas hesitated, but finally raised his eyes to meet Aragorn's, and there was a great sadness in their blue expression.  "She thought I would not come back for her.  She thought I would leave her and sail to Valinor."

            Aragorn leaned his head to one side, studying the Elf before him.  He thought of Arwen, of their many discussions over this same painful subject.  He remembered well how hard it had been for her to turn her back on the Undying Lands, despite her obvious love for him.  Yet in the end she had done it; she had given up an unending life of bliss to stay at his side, and though he sometimes felt guilty for having caused her to lose that, he believed her decision was the one she had truly wanted in her heart.

He fixed Legolas with a serious eye, realizing that Legolas might care for the woman far more than he had thought.  "And would you leave her?" he asked bluntly.

            Legolas frowned at his friend, surprised by such a question.  He shook his head, looking back down to his lap.  "My time for leaving is yet far off," he said quietly, repeating what he had told Laimea.  But Aragorn was not satisfied with such an answer.

            "But what if it is not?" the man anticipated.  "What if you go back for her as you told her you would?  What happens if your time to leave these shores comes sooner than you think . . . while she is still with you?"

            Legolas scanned the horizon with restless eyes.  He swallowed hard, knowing the call of the sea was very strong, though he had not yet felt it.  "I . . ." he paused, thinking of the promise he'd been ready to make to Laimea, if she had only accepted it.  "I would wait," he finished gruffly.  "If she had accepted my promise to come back for her and show her the forests of the Elves, I would not leave her behind . . . not even to go to Valinor."  He brought his gaze back to Aragorn, his eyes hard with sincerity.  "I would keep my word," he said gravely. 

            Aragorn said nothing, nor did he make a motion or expression of any kind to inform Legolas of his feelings toward such a profound declaration.

            "You did not see her face, Aragorn," the Elf whispered, unsure of the man's silence.  "I have never seen such grief since the aftermath of our last battle.  She said she has been hurt before . . . I think by some of my kin.  I saw it in her eyes.  Never have I been angry at my own before, except for on that night.  I would die before I caused her pain like that."

            Aragorn narrowed his eyes.  "That is a bold thing to say for one who is immortal," he commented dryly.  "To say you would remain, Legolas, if she accepted your promise . . . this means more than to keep your oath.  That cannot be the only reason; there must be something . . . more between you also?"  

            Legolas took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and finally nodded.  He could not hide his true feelings from Aragorn, even if he had wanted to."

"Are you sure she warrants such attentions on your part?"

            Legolas stared at Aragorn for a moment, his eyes fierce.  "Yes."

            "And yet you say that she deceived you, and would no longer accept your company."

            Legolas dropped his eyes from Aragorn's, feeling a sting at the harsh statement.  "I do not know the true meaning of her words any longer," he whispered honestly.  "Before I left the city I was told she was out on an errand, and would return later if I wished to speak to her.  I could have spoken to her again, perhaps found out the answer to her riddles . . . but I did not wait for her."  He looked up to Aragorn, his brows drawing down again.  "You do not know her as I do.  I do not understand the reason behind her words, and yet I cannot make myself believe that is how she truly feels."

            "What makes you think she believes differently than she said?" Aragorn asked.

            "Her eyes," Legolas said quietly.  "Her eyes betrayed her words.  She did not fully believe everything she said to me that night.  And only when I know the truth behind her words will I be able to put her out of my mind.  I should have waited for her."

Aragorn watched Legolas without speaking for a long moment.  "You said she spoke about the Grey Havens?"

Legolas nodded.

"If she did not think you would come back for her, perhaps someone very dear to her has left her before.  That could be why she has been to the Grey Havens, and why she refused your company once you reached the city."

            Legolas agreed absently, feeling the familiar hurt squeeze his chest when he thought of everything she had said.  He had hated seeing her so distraught, and hated even more being unable to do anything to comfort her.  She had pushed him away in the last days before they reached Minas Tirith, and ultimately hurt him with her words on their last night together, leaving him with no explanations for her sudden change in attitude toward him.  But if she was _peredhil_, or half-Elven - as he was now almost certain she was - and had been to the Grey Havens, only to be left behind . . .

            "That could be what has made her loathe to trust your kind," Aragorn suggested softly.

            Legolas focused his eyes on Aragorn once more, coming back from his memories.  "Yes," he said stiffly, "and what made her doubtful of my own words.  But I still do not understand why she would not have made these feelings known earlier."

            Aragorn sighed, looking down to twist his ring around his finger, as he often did now when talking about something serious. "Legolas," he said gently, "sometimes duty calls us to do things we would not otherwise do of our own will.  Perhaps she set aside her personal feelings on the journey for the sake of her duty, and yours."

            Legolas mulled over the words, memories of pulling her from the river and holding her in the moonless night came drifting back to him.  He shook his head.  "No.  When we were alone…" he faltered, unsure of whether he should reveal such things to Aragorn.  "When we were alone she made it known she did not mind my company.'

            Aragorn tilted his head to one side, looking over Legolas curiously.  "How did she do that?"

            Legolas stood abruptly at the question, knowing what passed through Aragorn's mind and angry at the man for thinking such things.  "You think too rashly, Aragorn," he snapped.

            The man held up his hands in surrender at the Elf's harsh tone.  "Forgive me," he asked.  "But I saw the way she watched you during the days before we reached Minas Tirith."

            Legolas had paced a few steps, but now he spun back to face Aragorn, his cloak swirling out around him.  "What?"  He'd caught Laimea staring at him a few times along their last days of journeying together, but always as soon as his eyes met hers she would look away.  "What do you mean?"

            Aragorn met Legolas' questioning eyes seriously.  "I believe the woman thinks more of you than you know," he said simply.

            Legolas frowned, coming to stand next to Aragorn.  "Then you also do not believe what you said about her setting aside personal feelings for duty?"

            Aragorn shook his head.  "From what she revealed to me on the night you wandered off, and the glances she cast in your direction when you were not looking… even Gimli suspected something.  Although it is more serious than even I had thought.  I think perhaps she was willing to set aside her previous feelings about your kind on your journey.  But people have a habit of converting to old ways when they are confronted with new and unexpected emotions."

            "Legolas shook his head again in frustration, stepping even closer to Aragorn's blanket.  "You speak in riddles, friend," he stated.

            The barest trace of a smile hinted at Aragorn's lips as he spoke again.  "I believe she told you what she did because she was confused.  She might have felt that way about your kind before, but as you suspect yourself, she may not truly feel that way anymore."

            "Then why-"

            Aragorn held up a hand, interrupting Legolas' question.  The man stood up to face the Elf, blue eyes regarding blue eyes expectantly.  "I did not mention this before because I did not know your feeling s for the woman were so strong," Aragorn said quietly.  "But now that you have made them clear to me… I think the woman told you such things to try and hide the truth from you, and perhaps even to try and hide it from herself."

            "Then what is the truth, Aragorn?" Legolas whispered.

            The man laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder.  "I think the lady Laimea of Gondor is in love with you, my friend."


	8. The Coming Storm

Author's Note: SPOILER WARNING!!  This chapter begins to get out of what was shown in The Two Towers movie!!  The subject matter was in the book, but for those of you who have not read the books… be warned, much of what it is in this chapter will be shown in the ROTK movie!  (At least I hope so!)  That being said, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!  Also… I am REALLY SORRY for taking so long to post this chapter!  I am getting married at the end of this month, so things have been VERY hectic for me lately, and I haven't had much time to write.  But here it is, at long last!  I apologize if it's not all it could be…  However, I want to send out a HUGE RESOUNDING THANK YOU to my beta for this chapter, Queen Mee!!  She has turned this into a MUCH BETTER piece of work than it would have been without her!!  THANKS for all your hard work!!!!  ^_^  

Also, I won't post Chapter 9 until after the release of ROTK, both because I will be too busy between now and then to produce anything worth reading, and because that way I will not have to worry about spoilers!  ;)  So once again… I am sorry for the delay, and another HUGE THANK YOU goes to all my wonderfully patient readers!!!  Bear with me, I beg of you!  ;)

Chapter Eight: The Coming Storm

****

****

            Laimea sat astride Morsul, gazing westward atop a grassy knoll many leagues from the outer wall of her City.  She rode without saddle or bridle, as she had ever since the day Legolas had left her.  She made quite a sight sitting there motionless on the black stallion, dressed in a simple white gown, her bare feet dangling and her hair left to fly free in the wind.  The harsh sunlight of mid-day glowed against the whiteness of her dress and dazzled the eye.  Anyone who might have chanced upon her there could have mistaken her for a vision… a maiden come to life from one of the songs of old.

            She stared at the rising peaks of the White Mountains and remembered the day that she, Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli had emerged onto the rolling hills of the south.  She'd been at this spot for hours already, and yet she was reluctant to leave.  She had come to this place often lately, trying to leave Minas Tirith and Anya far behind her.

            She had changed since the night in the orchard, and Anya was not the only one who noticed.  Whispers flew in her wake as she rode in and out of the City, but she paid them no heed.  Nor had the constant, ever more frantic warnings of her foster mother changed her mind.  The woman had not approved of Laimea's choice to ride Elf-fashion, but it was Laimea's frequent wanderings of the orchard and long absences from the City even when she didn't have an errand to run that worried Anya the most.  The former nursemaid knew something had changed within her adopted daughter, and Laimea felt it also.  It was an intangible change, and yet it had drawn the two apart over the past few days.  It hung between them like a dim curtain that could not be swept away.

            Laimea did not know what had changed within her.  But she grew more restless and troubled with each passing day, and she could not stay within the City walls.  Each dawn she rode out from the gates in Rammas Echor, and she rode hard and recklessly toward the west, sometimes intending to ride all the way back to Helm's Deep.  But always she stopped while Minas Tirith was still in her sight, and then she would sit atop Morsul and stare out west, or look northward toward Lothlorien, and feel a great loneliness settle on her heart.  But she never took another step in either direction, and she always went back to the City; realizing each time the heavy gates shut behind her that the great walls offered her a sense of safety, but they also locked her in.

            It was mid-day now, and Laimea raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.  She looked out over the bright grasses, her eyes eventually falling upon a far distant dark cloud hanging low at the base of the Misty Mountains, and she knew that was Isengard.

            She thought of Legolas traveling there with his companions, and saw him once again riding away from her - riding over this very ground.  Grief choked her and she swallowed hard, regret weighing heavily on her heart.  No matter how hard she rode or how far, no matter how long she sat and tried to consol herself, she could not push him from her mind.  His presence remained with her at all times; his face came to her in the night and lingered among her dreams.

She wished she hadn't of been so harsh to him on their last night together.  If she had not sent him away... he would have come back to her.  Then she could have looked out to the distance in hope, knowing that one day he would return, instead of knowing with despair that he had left Minas Tirith with her final farewell in his ears.

Yet she could not help but hope, with a small part of her, that by some chance he would come back to the City.  Perhaps then she would be able to remedy the hurt she'd caused him.  It was a fool's hope, and she knew it, but nonetheless she often rode out from the City to come and stand on this small hill, as if waiting to see him on the horizon.  And when she couldn't ride she stood at the walls looking out, still clinging desperately to some desire that he cared enough for her to come back and try again.

Laimea lowered her hand from her eyes.  She had tested his caring for her once, by asking the other riders to give him a false message about her whereabouts, and he had failed that test, riding away without waiting to speak to her again.  But she wouldn't let herself believe he'd left like that.  There had to be some other reason why he'd gone without waiting.

_You want to believe he cares for you_, she told herself wearily, _and so you sit and wait for him to return.  Yet he may not feel as strongly for you as you thought, or want to believe.  His feelings for you could very well have changed since that night.  She swallowed again, closing her eyes in surrender.  She hated the thought, but knew it could very well be the truth._

Morsul shifted beneath her and she nodded absently.  "Yes, Morsul," she whispered thickly, "it is time to go home."  She raised her eyes once more toward Isengard and noticed the sheen of tears blurred her vision.  "We shall not ride here again," she said firmly, but beneath her voice was the threat of tears.  She turned the horse around and kicked her heels to his sides, once again trying to lose her misery in the pounding of hooves.

***

            Legolas stood among blackened fields; all the grass had been burned away by some great fire.  The sky hung heavy and brown, laden with choking smoke.  He squinted and coughed, bringing an arm across his nose to shield his face.  The air stung, tasting sour with death as he breathed it in.  He walked forward cautiously, all senses straining, but the land around him was silent and empty, the parched dirt cracking with his soft footsteps.

            An object ahead glinted dully and he jogged toward it, his face creasing in a frown as he moved closer.  It lay all alone on the ground, still shining vaguely, and he knelt beside the weapon carefully, feeling his heart slow in his chest.  A sword without its master, undeniably crafted by the Elves, and fearfully familiar.  Legolas' breath caught in his throat as he reached out to lift it from the dust; his hand shook slightly as he grasped the warm wooden haft.

            He rested the blade across his lap, disregarding the dark, crusted blood that marred its shining surface.  Some of the thinly scrawled Elvish words were still visible along the dorsal side, and Legolas found himself whispering them aloud breathlessly.

            "Nimrunya am I… bright as Eärendil in the sky…" he stopped, sharp grief clogging his throat.  He'd heard those words before… his keen eyes snapped up to scan the horizon.  But still he saw no one, heard nothing.

            "Laimea," he murmured gruffly, standing once more and gripping her abandoned sword in his fist.  He swallowed back the panic welling in his chest and forced himself to remain calm, once again walking forward.  He would find her…

            The sound of galloping hooves echoed across the plain and Legolas crouched instinctively, bringing the sword up in readiness.  But no horse appeared, and the hoof beats faded.  He straightened, heart quickening in anticipation and unease.  A sudden flash of light staggered him and he threw an arm over his face to shield his eyes, but then it was gone.  He dropped his arm, blinking dazed eyes, and then stepped back at what he saw.

            A massive army of dark and twisted beings mounted on dark horses bore down upon him suddenly, their screeching cries piercing his ears.  The earth trembled against the soles of his feet with their coming, and the sound of one horse became many… thousands, the thunder of hooves growing to fill his skull.  He backed quickly away from them but knew he had no escape.  The front of their charge stretched wide, and their horses were fleet.  Even he would not be able to outrun them.  He raised the sword and set his jaw, determined to end at least a few of them even as they ended him.

            "Legolas!"

            He whirled at his name, momentarily forgetting the oncoming mass of horror.  He knew that voice…

            Laimea stood some ways behind him, and his heart leapt at the sight of her alive.  He suddenly had an intense desire to live, to escape the certain death of the onrushing hooves.  On impulse he sprinted toward her, wishing only at least to reach her and catch her up in his arms.

            The pounding hooves grew steadily louder, and the shuddering cries grew more frequent as the soldiers of evil approached their prey.  The Elf flew across the earth, but the wave of darkness was nearly upon him, and he heard the distinct twang of an arrow being released.  He knew it was over long before he felt the excruciating pain blossom through his chest, arresting his air.

            Laimea cried out to him, but he could not answer her.  Another arrow flew and slammed its barbed end into his flesh, lodging between his ribs.  Laimea was the last thing he saw, as she ran toward him, but too late.  He tasted blood and stumbled, no longer able to control his legs.  Then he fell, his body slamming into the hard earth.  The world had already begun to dim by the time the sharply shod hooves overran him.

            Legolas sprang up with a cry, knife in hand, and looked around wildly, only to see Aragorn start awake and sit up as well, hand on his sword.  The Elf stared at his friend, struggling to come back from the nightmare.  He breathed deep to try and calm himself, but found he was oddly short of breath.  The hand that had instinctively gripped one of his knives shook unnaturally and he felt a weakness through his limbs he could not explain.  He bent quickly to retrieve the rest of his weapons just as Aragorn rose to his feet.

            "Mani naa ta, Legolas?"  What is it, Legolas?

            Legolas finished buckling his quiver around his chest and shook his head.  "Engwarkaimelea, Aragorn.  N'uma ner."  Ill dreams, Aragorn.  Nothing more.

            Aragorn frowned, easily noting the Elf's discomfort.  "Lle tanaka?"  Are you sure?

            Legolas nodded silently, looking out toward the near tower of Orthanc, rising tall and sharp in the cold of night.  "I will return ere the dawn," he said shortly, and with that he strode away toward the dim shadows of the forest that had gathered at Isengard.

            Aragorn watched the Elf slide off into the darkness and disappear among the trees. For a long moment the man stood there, studying the silent night around him and sweeping his gaze over the many sleeping forms of King Theoden's men.  He shuddered at the memory of the cry that had awoken him.  It had been the woman's name Legolas had cried aloud in his dream; the woman's name that had stirred Aragorn from his own slumber.

            The man sighed, finally lying back down on his blanket and looking up to the stars above.  What Legolas had seen Aragorn did not know, but as for himself… the man could see only dire things in the future for Legolas if the Elf continued to walk the path he now followed.  

            He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the fate that would befall his friends or the men that now slept around him in the bracken outside of Isengard.  He tried not to think of the war to come, or of the deaths that would result, of the choice he would soon have to make.  He raised a hand and gently touched the pendant of Arwen Undomiel that hung around his neck.  He thought instead of her, of her peacefulness and beauty, and let her soft voice of reassurance lure him back into sleep.

            Legolas walked back toward the stone ring of Isengard, about which still hung the ghostly blue shadow of billowing steam.  All about the ring the monstrous dark forms of the Ents stood guard, now silent and still in their watch over the entrapped Saruman.  

            Legolas marveled again at the utter destruction wreaked by the Ents, recalling the events of the day and hoping to forget the horror of his dream.  Yet he found it difficult to keep his mind on anything else.  Not even the joyful reunion with Merry and Pippin or the swiftness of Saruman's defeat by Gandalf, or the curiosity of the round stone thrown down from the tower could occupy him now.  He saw only the army of evil bearing down upon him, and he felt again the pain of the arrows that had pierced his flesh.  He swallowed hard, his fists clenching and unclenching with the turmoil of his thoughts.  This dream had been far more vivid than any of the others.

            His pale eyes rose once again to regard the tower of gleaming black stone.  This had been a place of evil for many years now; the headquarters of Saruman's treacherous plotting.  Perhaps the evil remaining in this place was the reason for the intensity of his most recent nightmare.

            The low groan of shifting branches caught his attention and he slowed his swift pace, realizing he had stepped beneath the looming canopies of the Ents.  He paused, looking around at the many gnarled tree trunks, and felt as if he had once again entered Fangorn Forest.  He briefly wondered if there were any trees left at the old home of Treebeard, or if they had all marched here in rage of Saruman's wicked deeds.

            The groaning came again, followed by the slow creaking of ancient limbs and the soft whisper of rustling leaves.  The sounds spread back away into the darkness and Legolas closed his eyes, just listening.  They were talking to one another, and he found the sounds were comforting.

            "Ahrrooooomm, so you have come to visit me even sooner than I had expected," came a deep voice from behind.

            Legolas turned to see Treebeard standing just at the edge of the rest of the forest, and the Elf wondered that a creature so immense could still manage to move around so silently.  He stepped toward the Ent eagerly, looking a long ways up to the deep and glowing amber eyes.  "Yes, great Treebeard," he answered.  "I have come to visit tonight for as long as I may.  I have found I take great comfort in being among your kind."

            "Hooooorraaaaarroooomm," Treebeard rumbled, and Legolas thought the sound could have been an Ent chuckle.  "That is because you have been traveling too long with children, my good Elf!  We Ents have lived before any other, hoooraaaarooom… for a thousand lifetimes we existed without years, even before the First Born came with the rushing darkness."

            Legolas stared up in awe of this creature before him, realizing not for the first time how very old this race of beings was.  Treebeard himself had seen the coming of the Elves to Middle-Earth; he had seen things which no other living creature had conscious memory of, and Legolas, even with his centuries of living, had not even witnessed the birth of the race of Men.

            "We have watched the awakening of the world, dear Elf," Treebeard went on, "and have seen the emergence of the Dwarves from stone and the coming of Men from the forests of our hills, our homes.  Hoom!  Hm!  Even the immortal lives of your kin, Legolas, are but a passing breeze in the leaves for us."

            Legolas moved from beneath the other trees, coming to stand at Treebeard's base.  "I should very much like to hear more of what you have seen, O Master of Fangorn's Wood," the Elf spoke up readily, knowing that not even the eldest of Elves could tell him of the tales Treebeard remembered.

            "Hoom!  Come now!" Treebeard boomed.  "That is a tale that will take a very long time to tell!"

            Legolas glanced to the moon, seeing it hung nearly in the middle of the sky.  "I have till the dawn," he answered.

            Treebeard chuckled again, and one great gnarled appendage stroked the bushy mass of lichen that served as his beard and thus gave him his name.  "You live long, my good Elf, but even you are hasty to the mind of an Ent!  Sit with me for awhile, and I will tell you a little of this tale you wish to know, hooorraaaoom!  Though you say you will only have the time to hear a piece of it, for you ride with Men, and they are a very hasty folk indeed.  Perhaps someday you may hear the whole tale, though it would take many years to recount, if told properly.  Hoom!"

            "I will come to visit the Fangorn Wood again," Legolas promised, "and then I will stay to hear more of this tale, though it may yet not be the full account."

            Treebeard rumbled and extended down his arm.  Legolas leapt lightly onto the Ent's palm and was lifted to stand upon the rough shoulder.  "Yes," Treebeard said at last, "this world is changing.  There is little time for anything of old anymore.  It is a very sad thing.  Our time is passing, Legolas, Elf of Mirkwood."

There was a brief, depressing silence between them and Legolas braced himself as Treebeard moved slowly off from the others.  "Hrrooom!" the tree-herder boomed with sudden life.  "But come now; let me tell you some of an age that your kind has never seen!"

            The two of them went off together into the night, and as Treebeard's deep and soothing voice began its tale of past ages Legolas at last found brief refuge from the troubles that had haunted him since the fall of the wall at Helm's Deep. 

***

            Laimea stood in the dark of night, nearly hidden in the shadows of the skeletal trees around her.  Their deadened branches reached high over her head and the moon threw crooked designs across her motionless body.  She focused on the tall dead apple tree before her, Nimrunya held out rigidly in front of her with one hand, the other at her side for balance.  She recalled the moves shown to her by Aragorn, and then she sprang into action, rushing at the tree as if it were a mortal foe, ducking and slashing furiously with her sword, until at last she drove the point of it deep into the solid trunk of her target with a loud cry.

            She stepped back from the sword and swiped at the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid.  She stood still for a moment, catching her breath, and nodded with satisfaction at the depth of the blade in the wood.  She gripped the sword haft firmly, placing a foot against the trunk, and pulled hard.  The blade came free abruptly and she barely kept herself from falling.

            Regaining her composure, Laimea once again walked to the middle of the small clearing, standing among nearly knee-high grass.  This part of the orchard had never come back to life after her mother had left it so long ago, not even after years of careful care from both Laimea and Anya.  They had eventually given up on it, leaving the small area to its own devices, and Laimea now used this overgrown section to practice her swordplay.

            No one could see her here.  No one could tell her to stop practicing because it wasn't her place to be fighting.  Here she could be left alone.  

The Steward had not assigned her errands for several days now, claiming the roads had become too dangerous for her.  But the men hardly rode out anymore either, and so she accepted the excuse.  Every now and then an army of outsiders would arrive at the City, answering the Lord Denethor's call for help in strengthening Minas Tirith's defenses.  But the Lord had forbidden any to leave except by his order, and so now very few ever went out from the gates.

War was approaching.

The Steward knew it, and Laimea could feel it, as everyone could.  It made the people increasingly nervous.  Everyday the people of Gondor's proudest city would wake and look to the east, where the darkness loomed larger at each sunrise.  For years they had fought off the evil spewing from that place, saving lands farther west from even having knowledge such wicked things existed.  But now that evil was growing beyond anything they had ever seen before, as if preparing some kind of master attack.  All could sense it, and the tension in the air around the City was suffocating.

And so in the absence of riding Laimea had busied herself by practicing with the sword and the dagger.  She was not content to stand by and watch the men prepare while she remained helpless.  If war was to come then she would do her part in it.  If she could not ride for the Steward, then she would fight for him, and no one could convince her to do otherwise.

Laimea set her jaw and composed herself once again, setting her sights this time on a tree to her right.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then loosed another string of deadly moves, hacking off a good chunk of her target tree and following up with a short stab from her dagger.  This time, however, she did not stop at the end of the move.  She left her dagger in the tree and rolled away from it, then leapt to her feet with sword outstretched and spun around to slash at a second tree.  

Her ears pricked at a sudden noise and she came around quickly with sword at the ready, stopping the blade only inches from the hollow of Anya's neck.  Laimea blinked in surprise at seeing the woman and lowered her sword slowly, wiping an arm across her damp forehead.  "That is not wise," she growled, reluctantly sheathing her sword and heading across the clearing to retrieve her dagger.  "You should not sneak up on people in the dark."  Laimea frowned at the words, for they reminded her suddenly of her nights with Legolas in the White Mountains.  "Especially someone armed," she added absently.

Anya did not move from the spot in which she stood, but she watched Laimea pull the dagger from the tree with stern eyes.  "What are you doing here, child?" Anya asked quietly.  "Do you no longer sleep?"

Laimea sighed heavily, replacing the dagger on her belt and turning to face her mother.  Her limbs burned with exertion and sweat covered her body despite the chill night air, but she wished Anya had not interrupted.  Laimea found she could forget about Legolas when holding the sword or riding, but in the absence of activity the Elf came floating back to her, as he did even now.  "I cannot sleep, Mother," she said wearily.  "Not in these times.  The Steward has forbidden me to ride out unless under his order, but until then I cannot sit idly by and do nothing."  Her hand fell to rest unconsciously on the haft of Nimrunya.  "War is coming… and I must be ready."

Anya pursed her lips, glancing around the deadened clearing anxiously.  She had never liked this area of the orchard; it brought back too many haunting memories for her… memories of her life before the Elves… memories of Laimea's mother.  Laimea was surprised the woman had even come to find her here.  "Laimea," Anya began, bringing her eyes back to the girl's face, "women are not meant to fight.  You know as well as I do that our skills are needed elsewhere.  This city has plenty of battle-ready men… but there are few women left to help the Healers."

Laimea turned away from Anya suddenly, tired of hearing this same speech every time Anya caught her practicing her swordplay.  She paced to the other side of the clearing, pretending to examine a slash she had made in one of the trees.

But Anya continued undaunted.  "They will need us in the Healing House when the time comes.  You should be practicing your herb lore instead of your weapons skills."

Laimea straightened, turning to face Anya again with flashing eyes.  "Why?" she demanded.  "Who is to say I can't fight?"

Anya shook her head in exasperation.  "You would not last in battle, Laimea!  You should not even be allowed to ride on those foolish errands, no matter what the Steward has told you!"

Laimea's fists clenched at her sides, her eyes burning with all the ferocity and determination of her forbearers.  "I earned the right to ride," she spat, "and I am glad to do my part for the City I call my own!"

"Do not be so foolish as to think that fighting and riding are the only parts to play in this City," Anya warned, a defensive note creeping into her voice.  "Every person has a duty here, and they are all equally important!"

"That may be so," Laimea returned, "but each person must do what they know… and I know the sword."

Anya clasped her hands together at her waist, regarding Laimea skeptically.  "And what captain would ever let you join their company, Laimea?" she asked softly.  "What captain would let a woman ride at his side and endanger her life when she could be serving more use in the Healing House, where it is safe?"

            Laimea raised her chin haughtily.  "I will not sit quietly by in the Healing House and be a nursemaid to those deemed stronger than I," she growled.  "And I know of one captain who would let me fight."  She thought of Aragorn, fondly remembering his lesson to her in swordplay.  He had not scoffed at her for carrying a weapon.  

            She had not known who he was when she'd first met him… but on the night they had talked alone together she had clearly seen the sword he'd held.  As clear as a flame the image burned in her mind.  It was Narsil, the sword of Elendil.  The mark of the last house of Numenor.  Knowing this, and seeing that sword in the hands of Aragorn, Laimea recognized him for who he truly was… the heir of Isildur, the rightful king of Gondor, the man until now presumed not to exist.

But Laimea had not revealed her understanding, though her own heart had leapt at the discovery.  She had not mentioned the fact she knew to Aragorn, or to Legolas, or to anyone in Gondor.  Why Aragorn had not come to Gondor to claim his throne she did not know, nor had she dared to question him about it.  

She chose instead to harbor a secret hope that Aragorn was merely waiting for the right moment to make his return.  She could not bear to think that he had turned his back on his birth right and would never return to claim his kingship…  she could not bear to think that Legolas would never again step inside the walls of Minas Tirith.  Aragorn was the only one she knew for certain would allow her to fight… and he was also her only real hope for Legolas' return.  Her stomach turned at the thought.  If only they would return in time, for the days were getting darker and the storm was coming, looming on the horizon just out of sight.

Anya squinted through the darkness at her daughter, her face heavily lined with confusion.  The woman said nothing for a long moment more, her eyes searching Laimea's clouded face for some clue of whom the girl was speaking of.  The sounds of the night crept through the clearing and Laimea's harsh breathing was loud in the silence. Then Anya's eyes suddenly widened with realization.

"Surely you do not mean to speak of…" the woman trailed off, not daring to mention the title out loud.

Laimea nodded, her eyes shining in secret triumph.  "Yes," the girl hissed.  "I speak of him… the one… the true King of Gondor… the heir of Isildur himself!"

            Anya's face paled, turning ashen gray. "But – but how do you _know_…," the woman asked breathlessly in disbelief.  "I know of the rumors, child… the city whispers of a man who is to come and reclaim the throne.  But it is no more than a childish dream… there has not been a king in Gondor for an age!  How can you be certain this man you speak of is truly who you say he is?" 

Laimea straightened her shoulders confidently.  "I saw his sword," she said quietly.  "It was Narsil… the very sword of Elendil.  There was no mistaking it.  And you know the story of that sword as well as I."

Anya blinked, her expression clearing, and it was a long moment before she could bring herself to speak.  "But… that sword… you have never seen it… how would you tell it from any other sword?"

            Laimea's gaze turned inward, and she remembered clearly the small Elvish runes engraved upon the hilt of Aragorn's sword.  It had shone even brighter than Nimrunya in the moonlight, and while practicing the fighting moves with Aragorn Laimea had also caught a glimpse of the words along the blade.  She had read them quickly, but they would be forever stamped upon her memory.  She recited them for Anya flawlessly.  "Nányë Andúril i né Narsil i macil Elendilo.  Lercuvanten i máli Mordórëo… I am Andúril who was Narsil, the sword of Elendil. Let the thralls of Mordor flee me."

            Anya stepped backwards woodenly, as if the words themselves had physical power over her.  She stared at Laimea, her mouth falling open as if to speak, but saying nothing.  The silence in the clearing was deafening.

            Laimea went on.  "And the hilt reads 'Narsil essenya, macil meletya; Telchar carneron Navarotess… Narsil is my name, a mighty sword; Telchar made me in Nogrod.'"  She paused, regarding Anya with triumph.  "So you see, Mother.  There is no mistaking it.  He _is _the king of Gondor."

            Anya stumbled, groping for the nearest tree and leaning on it heavily as a wave of weariness swept over her.

            Laimea frowned in concern and moved quickly to stand beside her mother, taking Anya's arm gently.  "Are you all right?" the girl asked worriedly, suddenly afraid the shock of such news would be too much for the elderly woman.

            But Anya nodded, looking up at Laimea steadily.  "Yes," the woman finally whispered.  "Yes… I'm fine… it's just…" she broke off, her face contorting into an expression of hope and dread.  "Do you think… do you think he will return?"

            Laimea shook her head.  "I do not know," she answered truthfully.  "He had a chance to ride here while I was with him and he did not come.  He said it was not yet his time to enter the City and sent Legolas with me instead."

            Anya's eyes immediately hardened and she straightened against the tree, pulling away from Laimea.  "Legolas?" she repeated in disgust.  "The heir of Isildur travels with an Elf?"

            "Yes," Laimea said defensively, "Legolas follows Aragorn.  But why should that matter?"

            Anya narrowed her eyes, studying Laimea for a brief moment before shaking her head in condemnation.  "You still hope for the Elf's return, don't you?" the woman asked in amazement.  "You cling to the hope the king of Gondor will soon return, and along with him will come your Legolas!"

            "I hope for the king's return for the sake of Gondor!" Laimea burst out, unable to contain her anger any longer.  "With him we may yet have a chance against the darkness, and with him I will be allowed to fight, to do my part in battle… it is no longer just about Legolas, Mother.  You should understand that!"

            Anya met Laimea's enraged gaze evenly.  "Oh no, child," the woman whispered quietly, "I think I understand far too well.  You forget I have seen all this happen before… and it did not turn out well, did it?  You may try and tell yourself it is no longer about the Elf, but I can see the truth in your eyes.  You still long for him… I know he is the one you watch for atop those walls!  But you are indulging in fantasies; Laimea… an Elf has no reason to return to this place of Men.  He did not come back for you, and there is little else here for him.  He will not return."

            Laimea glared fiercely at Anya, making fists so tight her nails dug painfully into her palms.  "If Aragorn comes to Minas Tirith Legolas will come also," she snapped.

Anya scoffed.  "An Elf has no business fighting in Men's wars-"

"It is not just Men's war any more, Mother!" Laimea barked suddenly, and Anya startled at the volume of the girl's voice.  "Don't you understand that?  Are you that blind to the darkness in the east?  It is much bigger than anything Men can handle alone now… all of Middle-Earth is at risk!  Isn't Lord Denethor calling for help on all fronts?  And as for Legolas, you _sorely_ misjudge him!"

Anya shifted uncomfortably at the tone of Laimea's voice.

"You know nothing of him!" Laimea spat vehemently, her eyes shining with fury.  "For years I have listened to your tales of the Elves, for years I have believed your lies about them!"

"Lies?" Anya gasped.

"Yes, lies!" Laimea repeated, the anger in her blood making her merciless.  "You know nothing of them save your hatred for them, and yet you have never desired to remedy that hate!"

"And why should I desire to remedy it?" Anya demanded heatedly.  "Why should I desire to remedy anything with that race?  They took my life from me, child, and you better than anyone should understand that!  They took your life away too when they made your father leave, and then you had no one but me!"

Laimea shook her head, feeling tears sting the backs of her eyes.

"We were outsiders there, Laimea," Anya continued.  "Have you forgotten?  You felt it just as keenly as I did… we did not belong there.  Not even you, who were born among them… they care for no one but their own!"

"That's not true!" Laimea protested suddenly, but even as she spoke guilt stabbed through her.  _I know the way of Elves… their true devotion belongs to their own kind._  Hadn't she just said that to Legolas a few nights earlier?  Did she believe it?  Was it true?  "That's not true," she said again, trying to convince herself as much as Anya and struggling against the tears that blurred her vision.  She remembered the first time she'd seen Legolas, sitting on the wall of Helm's Deep.  She recalled the grief that had darkened his face that day, and his snapped reply to her question… _Victory?__  Not victory!  My heart grieves for the dead!  _

She thought of his constant concern for her over their journey through the White Mountains, and her heart squeezed in her chest.  How could she have doubted his words that night outside the guest house?

"That is not true," she said once more, strongly this time, raising her head to glare once more at her foster mother.  "I rode to Helm's Deep, and what I found there I could not describe to you.  For I arrived just after they had fought a great battle, a battle they should have lost, against the very enemies that threaten this city!  It was the dead and not the living that welcomed me to that fortress, Mother!  But what did I see among the bodies of the men and boys of Rohan?  Elves!  Elves, Mother!  The bodies of Elves lie along with the bodies of Men… immortal lives cast away beside mortal ones!  And I daresay, from what I heard of the battle, if it had not been for the help of the Elves the Men would not have lasted the night!"

Anya gaped at Laimea, stricken by the girl's words and afraid of the tears that slid freely down the girl's cheeks.

"Legolas was there, Mother.  He fought beside Men, and risked himself to help them!  He did not celebrate in their victory… he only mourned the deaths of those who did not see the dawn."  Laimea swiped at her tears, glowering at Anya.  "He even risked himself to protect _me_, Mother!  Always during our journey from Helm's Deep he showed concern for me, and he constantly saw to my needs before his own… you do not know him as I do!"

Anya's eyes flashed angrily.  "And how well do you really know this Elf, Laimea?" the woman demanded scathingly.  "You traveled with him for mere days!"

"I know him well enough!" Laimea argued, remembering the comfort of Legolas' arms around her, the warmth of his body next to hers.  She could still clearly see the pain on his face when she had left him last, and the guards had told her of his anger when he had learned he'd been lied to.  Laimea swallowed hard, closing her eyes in shame even as Anya continued her protests.

"Well enough?" the woman repeated skeptically.  "Well enough for what, child?  How could you possibly know anything about him?"

Laimea took a deep breath, and it shuddered as she released it.  Legolas _had_ come to find her… and had wanted to talk to her again despite her sudden rejection of him the night before.  And she had been foolish enough to hide from him.  It had not been enough to hear the confessions of his heart, to see his feelings for her laid bare on the fair features of his face.  She had insisted on playing a childish game of hide-and-seek, trying to prove to herself his words were true, and instead she had lost him.  She had never regretted something so much as she now regretted asking the riders to lie for her.  

Laimea opened tear-wet eyes to look Anya in the face once more and cleared her throat, finally bringing herself to speak.  "I know how Legolas feels for me," she said thickly, "and that is enough."

Anya's expression soured, her dark eyes flaming.  "No," the woman growled, "it is not enough.  He finds you beautiful, and that's all you know!  But an Elf's life is long, and you will fade."  The woman stepped forward, her look boring into Laimea's soul.  "Elves are creatures of beauty, Laimea, and they wish to surround themselves with beauty, that is all.  He will not be so interested in you when you are old, and then you will be left alone!"

Laimea clenched her jaw, swallowing back the rage and hurt that burned in her chest.  She'd heard these words before, but now she refused to believe them.  The more she thought of Legolas, of his caring and honesty, of his obvious loyalty to his comrades, the more Anya's words seemed only the result of the woman's hatred toward the Elves.

"How dare you say such things!" Laimea snarled.  "You speak from hatred and not from truth!"

"No!" Anya shouted, coming swiftly to stand before Laimea and gripping the girl's arms tightly.  "I speak the truth.  I speak not from hatred, but from experience!  I lived with the Elves many years longer than you, child," the woman whispered, tears shining in her eyes.  "I know them!  If you are not left from age you will be left on the shores of the west… but it is certain that in the end you will be left alone!"

"He would not leave without me!" Laimea cried suddenly, wrenching away from Anya's grip.  But the unwanted memories rushed to her mind like a flood; the dock beneath her feet, the waves lapping at the shore... the white ship sailing slowly from her sight…

"And how do you know this?" Anya demanded, snapping Laimea from her thoughts.  "Did he tell you this?"

Laimea stared at her foster mother, her eyes wide, breathing heavily with the emotions roiling through her body.  She opened her mouth, but could not answer, for she realized with a shock that Legolas had never told her such a thing.

Anya smiled tightly at Laimea's silence, her eyes glittering.  "You see, child? Your impulsiveness has led you astray once again.  You have no way of knowing that he would not leave you for the shores of Valinor."

Laimea dropped her eyes to the grass beneath her feet, gulping air to restrain the sobs that threatened to break free.  She blinked, sending heavy tears down her cheeks, and swallowed hard.  "He said his time for leaving was passed the years of my life," she finally croaked, gaining control of herself.  She lifted her eyes to meet Anya's boldly.

The woman sighed, a look of mixed pity and frustration painting her aged features.  "An Elf has no way of knowing when his time will come.  He does not know when the sea will overwhelm him with longing… none of them do!  But one day it will come to him, and it will be very strong.  I have seen many an Elf who believed they would never leave Middle-Earth.  But in the end they always sailed away.  Your Legolas will do the same, Laimea.  No matter if you are still with him or not."

Laimea narrowed her eyes, shaking her head vigorously.  As doubtful as she had been before, memories of her journey with Legolas had now made her confident.  What she had seen and felt from him during those days could not be mistaken.  It could not be denied any longer.  "No," she said.  "He would not leave me.  The call of the sea cannot be as strong as the call of love."

"Love?" Anya burst out.  "Dear gods child!  What has happened to your sense?  Surely you cannot be so foolish  as to believe-"

"I know what I feel for him, Mother," Laimea snapped brutally, "and I know what he feels for me."

"Feels for you?" the woman sputtered.  "Laimea, he is not coming back!  He left you… he cannot possibly love you!"

"He left because _I _sent him away!" Laimea shouted hoarsely.  "But the king of Gondor is coming, and Legolas will return with him.  I know this!"

"And then what?" Anya asked in a fury.  "What then will you do, Laimea?  Would you follow him into battle to fight by his side, would you follow him to the sea only to be left behind?  Would you follow him into death?"

"Yes," Laimea choked out bravely.  "I would rather live out my years at his side or die than spend any more days without him."

Anya fell back at Laimea's words, staring as if the girl had become some strange creature.  The woman's mouth hung open for moment, her lips searching for words.      Laimea's fierce glare did not waver.  "I have made my choice," she said quietly.  "I would follow Legolas to whatever end."

Anya closed her mouth at the statement, her horrified expression morphing slowly into one of admitted defeat.  Tears slipped from her lashes and trickled over the wrinkled cheeks.  The woman shook her head hopelessly.  "I knew this day would come," she whispered, hardly audible over the sounds of the night.  "But this pain could not be foretold…"

Laimea frowned at the words, but then Anya turned and went quickly from the deadened clearing, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

***      


	9. Into the Shadow

**A/N:******This chapter is going by the book, just so you know!  And as a side note, for those of you who noticed, last chapter I went by the book on when Aragorn received Anduril… sorry for any confusion!  Some terms you'll need to know for later on: cuirass = armor that goes on the upper body, fauld = the armor that covers the butt and thighs, bracers = armor that covers the forearm, pauldrons = armor that covers the shoulders, hauberk = the shirt of chain mail, lames = I can't really figure a way to describe them, sorry!  Go read the book _The Lord of the Rings: Weapons and Warfare_ by Chris Smith if you want full explanations!  ;)  Sorry about posting so late again L … school has been hell!  But I really appreciate those of you who have been so patient… you guys are all the best!!!  This chapter is for all of you who have hung in there!  I hope it doesn't disappoint!  (But don't read it too fast, because school will likely be out for summer before I get to post Chapter 10!)  Again, though… THANKS for being so patient!!  ^_^  If you want updates on how fast a chapter is coming along, try my bio here on ff.net!  Thanks everyone!

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**Chapter Nine: Into the Shadow**

            Treebeard strode slowly around the ring of Isengard, talking while he walked; his voice a slow and steady stream of words against the stillness of the night.  "All remnant of the old world will pass," he said heavily.  "And in the space of years the Ents will no longer pass through these lands, or any other.  Then Men will rule, Legolas of Mirkwood, and who are we to join them?"

            Legolas pondered the question, thinking of everything Treebeard had just told him.  The world had changed much since the beginning, and it was changing again.  For many years now Legolas had watched his kindred slowly depart Middle-Earth, traveling to the western shores where the white ships were always sailing.  The Elves had come to Middle-Earth long ago, but they did not belong here.  The sea was calling them home.  

            And though Legolas could not bring himself to think of it now, a part of him knew with utter certainty that eventually he too would leave Middle-Earth.  There would be no avoiding it.  Galadriel had warned him of that much in her message to him; Laimea had painfully reminded him of it in Gondor.

            He sighed softly, turning to look over his shoulder at the encampment behind him.  He had traveled with Men for many months now, and he knew, perhaps better than any other Elf, that the time of Men was indeed approaching.  Aragorn stood upon a threshold, and the race of Men would follow him in his destiny, whether it would be to destruction or to glory.  

            Legolas turned his eyes east, resting his far-sighted gaze on the blackened shadow that was Mordor.  It was not only Men who were being put to the test in these dark days.  The two Hobbits, Frodo and Sam, were up to a greater and more evil challenge, and upon the success of their mission the whole fate of Men and all other creatures of Middle-Earth now hung.  If Frodo and Sam failed, there would be no dawn for Men.  There would be no dawn for any in Middle-Earth.

            Legolas shook his head.  His place _was_ with Men in this fight.  His place was beside Aragorn, the rightful King of Gondor.  He had pledged his skills to the Fellowship so long ago, and he would honor that oath no matter the circumstance, until the power of Sauron was broken or until his immortal life was claimed in battle.

            He opened his mouth to tell this to Treebeard but a piercing cry cut him off.  He sprang to his feet upon Treebeard's shoulder and turned his sharp gaze back toward the camp.  They had traveled some distance already, but still Legolas could see the stirrings of King Theoden's men, and his heart fluttered in brief fear.

            He looked down to Treebeard.  "I am sorry, Old Friend, but it seems I must once again beg your leave."

            "Oh?" Treebeard asked, coming to a halt and twisting his great trunk to look over his shoulder.  "Is there some trouble?"

            "I do not know," Legolas answered, already assessing the easiest way to climb down from the Ent.  "But I must go to my companions.  Forgive me for interrupting our conversation… we shall have to continue it upon our next meeting."

            Treebeard nodded slowly.  "Yes, yes," he rumbled.  "So we shall.  And perhaps then you will not be in such a hurry… these are hasty times that have come upon us now…"

            "I hope you are right, my friend," Legolas said, and with that he deftly swung down to Treebeard's arm and dropped lightly to the ground.  He looked back up to the Ent and bowed deeply.  "Until we meet again, great Fangorn."

            Treebeard returned the Elf's nod, sweeping one great limb wide in a farewell gesture.  "Hooooraaaaooom!  Farewell for now, my good Elf.  But remember, you are older than the children you travel with… not as old as the hills to which you head, but old none the less.  Be wary before you move with the minds of Men."

            Legolas nodded again, backing away toward the camp, for once wishing that Ents were not so long-winded.  But Treebeard stepped forward, having one more thing to say.

            "Hoom!  Hm!  There is a reason Elves and Ents are leaving, Legolas.  We are not meant for the world that is coming."

            Legolas looked up to the amber eyes at the words.  "Perhaps you are right, great Fangorn," the Elf admitted, "but I must do my part to ensure that the world that is coming is full of light, and not ruled by darkness."

            Treebeard blinked at the statement, humming to himself, but Legolas did not wait for the Ent to comment.  The Elf bowed once more.  "Until we meet again," he said, and then he turned and sprinted back to the camp, a sense of urgency gnawing at the back of his mind.

*

Legolas reached the camp quickly enough, and as he drew closer he saw a group of soldiers clustered together around Gandalf.  Aragorn and Gimli stood off to one side of the crowd.  Legolas trotted up alongside Aragorn and halted there, looking to the man with troubled eyes.  "Mani naa raika?" What is wrong? Legolas asked, only slightly out of breath from his run.

Aragorn glanced to the Elf and then nodded toward Gandalf, and some of the soldiers parted enough for Legolas to see that the wizard knelt beside Pippin.  "Pippin took the stone ball from Gandalf," Aragorn said in a low voice.  "He looked into it."

Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion.  He turned back to Aragorn, studying the man's face, but Aragorn did not meet the Elf's gaze.  "Aragorn," Legolas said softly, his unease growing, "mani naa ta?" what is it?

Aragorn clenched his jaw, but it was another long moment before his blue eyes finally lifted to meet the inquiring stare of the Elf.  "I believe the stone ball is a _palantir_," the man whispered hoarsely.  "One of the seven lost long ago at the fall of Numenor… an heirloom of my people."

Legolas blinked at the statement, his mouth dropping open to reply, but he found no words.  He knew the story of the seven Seeing Stones; he knew of their uses and the dangers of using them in these times.  But to think that one of them had been found after they had been lost for so long, to think one had literally been thrown down at them…and Pippin had used it, possibly revealing all of their plans to the Enemy…

Aragorn saw that Legolas understood the implications of Pippin's action and turned away, leaving the group of soldiers that had gathered.  The Elf moved to follow the man but Gimli put out an arm to stop him and shook his head.

"It's all right, Legolas," Gimli spoke up.  "Let him alone for awhile.  No harm came to Pippin, and no harm was caused.  Or so Gandalf says."

The Elf frowned after Aragorn for a second longer, but then he looked to Gandalf as the wizard lifted Pippin from the ground and carried him back to where the hobbits had made their beds for the night.  Satisfied that Pippin was indeed unharmed, Legolas turned his attention back to Gimli.  "But the Enemy… did he see…?"

Gimli nodded, his face grave.  "The hobbit came face to face with Sauron himself, it seems.  The Enemy saw him and questioned him, but Pippin revealed nothing.  At least, nothing of importance.  As Gandalf said, we have been strangely fortunate.  Strangely…"

Legolas frowned again, still able to feel the remnants of evil radiating from the now darkened stone.  He shifted on his feet anxiously, casting his gaze around the camp.  The men slowly began to disperse and return to their beds.  Legolas glanced back down to Gimli.  "I heard a cry…?"

Gimli nodded again.  "Yes.  That was also Pippin.  I thought he was dead when I first laid eyes upon him… stiff as a corpse, he was.  But Gandalf woke him up.  He seems to be recovering well enough."  The Dwarf grunted.  "Hobbits.  Their resilience far outgrows their size."

Legolas smiled at the statement, but the smile vanished as Gandalf came back into sight.  The wizard's face was grim as he stood over the stone again, looking at it almost as if expecting it to come alive.

"Peril comes in the night when least expected," Gandalf muttered.  "We have had a narrow escape!"

"How is the hobbit, Pippin?" a voice asked, and Legolas spun in surprise to see that Aragorn had returned to the remaining group of soldiers.  The Elf stepped out of Aragorn's way and the man moved forward to stand near Gandalf.

"I think all will be well now," Gandalf said at last.  "He was not held long, and hobbits have an amazing power of recovery.  The memory, or the horror of it, will probably fade quickly.  Too quickly, perhaps.  Will you, Aragorn, take the Orthanc-stone and guard it?  It is a dangerous charge."

Legolas' eyes widened at the words.  He glanced to Gimli, but the Dwarf too looked surprised.  There was a brief silence, and Legolas nearly held his breath.  It _was_ a _palantir_, a Seeing Stone, and it belonged to Aragorn by right.  But would he accept it?

"Dangerous indeed," Aragorn agreed softly, "but not to all.  There is one who may claim it by right.  For this assuredly is the _palantir_ of Orthanc from the treasury of Elendil, set here by the Kings of Gondor.  Now my hour draws near.  I will take it."

Legolas released his breath quietly as Gandalf nodded in approval and stepped forward, bowing as he presented the covered stone to Aragorn.  At last Aragorn, son of Arathorn, seemed to be accepting the role he'd been born for.  He was no longer hiding from his heritage.

"Receive it, lord!" Gandalf said, "In earnest of other things that shall be given back…"

Legolas watched the passing of the Seeing Stone from Gandalf to Aragorn, but the words that were being spoken faded from his ears, and a dark presence fluttered at the back of his mind.  He forgot the soldiers around him and turned his eyes sharply to the sky, searching for the presence he felt.  He searched to the limits of his sight, but saw nothing.  He looked around the camp again worriedly, but there was no sign of anything out of place.  The Elf backed away from the group of men, still scanning the surrounding lands, his hand drifting unconsciously toward his bow.

Then the voices of the men came back to him, and he heard King Theoden speak.  "I will keep Eomer and ten Riders.  They shall ride with me at early day.  The rest may go with Aragorn and ride as soon as they have a mind."

"As you will," said Gandalf.  "But make all the speed you may to the cover of the hills, to Helm's Deep!"

No sooner had the words left Gandalf's mouth than a great shadow passed suddenly over the moon.  Legolas crouched instinctively, snatching up his bow.  The soldiers ducked in the moment of darkness, cowering with their arms over their heads as if to ward off a blow.  Some cried out in blind terror as a monstrous winged shape flew before the moon and wheeled north, blotting out the stars.  Legolas fitted an arrow to his bow with uncanny speed, but then the dark shape was gone, vanishing into the distance.

The men stood slowly, rigidly, hands on their weapons, looking around warily.  But the shadow did not reappear.  Gandalf sprang to life suddenly, his great voice loud in the deathly silence.  "Nazgûl!" he cried.  "The messenger of Mordor.  The storm is coming.  The Nazgûl have crossed the River!  Ride, ride!  Wait not for the dawn!  Let not the swift wait for the slow!  Ride!"

And with that he was off, calling Shadowfax as he ran.  Aragorn followed him, leaving Legolas and Gimli behind.  The rest of the men went immediately into motion, their fear of the passing shadow driving their haste.

Legolas put away his weapons hurriedly and looked to Gimli, who stood waiting, watching the Elf expectantly.  "Come, Gimli," Legolas said, nodding his head toward where Steadyfoot had been tied.  "We must ride!"

Gimli smiled beneath his beard.  "Well… what are we waiting for?"

Legolas sprang away at the Dwarf's invitation, dodging through the chaotic mess of the quickly collapsing camp.  Men ran in every direction; putting out fires, rolling up bed blankets, packing belongings, and saddling horses.  Legolas weaved around the disorganization easily, but Gimli found it a challenge to keep up with the long-legged Elf.

By the time Gimli reached the horse Legolas already sat astride the animal, and the Elf smiled down good-naturedly at his friend.  "Come, Gimli.  Now is no time for dallying.  What has taken you so long?"

Gimli's mouth dropped open, his eyes narrowing in a glare as he sputtered for a reply.  "Why you – why I never – how dare you say…" his words faltered as Legolas held down a hand.  The Dwarf eyed Legolas for a moment, realizing at last the Elf was only mocking him.  Gimli let out a frustrated growl, shaking his head, and debated accepting the hand up.  But another look at the distance to the horse's back made up his mind for him, and he reluctantly grasped Legolas' wrist, boosting himself off the ground as the Elf easily pulled him up.

Gimli quickly situated himself behind Legolas, and when the Dwarf had steadied his seat Legolas kicked Steadyfoot in a canter, reaching Gandalf and Aragorn just as Aragorn was setting Pippin before Gandalf on Shadowfax.  The wizard glanced to the Elf and the Dwarf, and then looked back down to Aragorn.  "Farewell!" he cried.  "Follow fast!  Away, Shadowfax!"

The great horse snorted, tossing his silver head, and sprang forward, galloping off into the night until he vanished into the distance.  Aragorn turned immediately to Merry.  "You must come with me now, Merry.  Go and get ready.  Bring anything that Pippin left behind.  Make haste!"

Merry nodded, scrambling off to get his things, and Aragorn took the reins of Hasufel, looking off in the direction Gandalf had gone.  The three of them were quiet for awhile, listening to the sounds of the men around them, and Merry returned shortly, carrying his light bundle of belongings.  Aragorn looked down to the hobbit fondly, then raised his eyes to Legolas and Gimli, and a smile hinted at the corners of his mouth.

"So four of the Company still remain," he said quietly.  His smile faded, his eyes focusing inward for a moment; remembering the day the Fellowship had first come together.  They had been through so much since then… and had lost much.  But the journey was not over yet.  Aragorn blinked, coming out of his reverie, and brought his gaze back to the small group around him.  "We shall ride on together," he said.  "But we shall not go alone, as I first thought.  King Theoden now wishes to set out at once.  Since the coming of the Nazgûl he wishes to return to the hills under cover of night."

"Then we are to ride to Helm's Deep at once?" Gimli asked.

Aragorn nodded.  "Yes.  That is our road."

Legolas swallowed, thinking of the many graves and broken wall that awaited him at that place.  He recalled the first night he had encountered Laimea on the wall of the Keep.  "And then?" he asked Aragorn, hoping they would not linger long at the Hornburg.  "Then where shall we go?"

Aragorn shook his head.  "I cannot say yet," the man answered truthfully.  "The King will go to the muster he commanded at Edoras four nights from now.  And there, I think, he will hear tidings of war, and the Riders of Rohan will go down to Minas Tirith."              Legolas' eyes sharpened at the mention of the city, but he remained silent.

"But for myself," Aragorn continued, "and any that will go with me, we may take a different route."

Legolas glanced over his shoulder to where he and Treebeard had walked and talked for all too short a time.  …_And who are we to join them?_  The Elf turned back to Aragorn resolutely.

"I will go with you, Aragorn," he said strongly.

"And I with him!" cried Gimli.

The small smile came again to Aragorn's face, though only briefly, and he nodded appreciatively.  He turned to look southeast, his expression falling grim.  "All is dark before me," the man whispered solemnly.  "I must also go to Minas Tirith, but I do not yet see the road.  An hour long prepared approaches."

Legolas followed Aragorn's gaze, remembering his visit to the White City and the woman he had left behind there only a few days before.  So he _would_ be going back.  He would have the chance to speak to her again and correct his previous mistake...  His heartbeat quickened at the realization, but then he quickly reprimanded himself for holding onto such hope.  _It is likely she has ridden south to safety by now_, he thought sullenly.  _And even if she hasn't, she has already told me what she thinks of my kind.  She has already given me a chance to speak to her again, and I refused it.  I left her.  She has no way to know if I will come back…she will not wait for me._  Legolas sighed quietly, remembering well the look in Laimea's eyes on their last night together.  He had been trying to determine what that look meant ever since Laimea had left him standing alone on the streets of Minas Tirith.__

_Then what is the truth, Aragorn?_  Legolas had once asked his friend, hoping the man could provide some insight into Laimea's behavior that he had missed.  But the man's reply had been far from anything Legolas expected.  _I think the lady Laimea of Gondor is in love with you, my friend.  _

Legolas closed his mind to such thoughts abruptly and he would not let himself ponder them anymore.  The fact that Laimea could possibly feel love for him was an idea the Elf could not handle at the moment.  Likely they would ride to Minas Tirith for war, and there would be no time for thoughts of the woman; no time for talking to her if he did indeed find her.  There would be no time for any kind of distraction.

"Don't leave me behind!" Merry blurted suddenly into the quiet, startling the other three companions and bringing Legolas back to the present.  "I have not been of much use yet; but I don't want to be laid aside, like baggage to be called for when all is over.  I don't think the Riders will want to be bothered with me now…" the hobbit looked over his shoulder to where the men picked up the last remainders of the camp, and such a forlorn look crossed his features that Legolas couldn't help but feel sorry for the Halfling.  Pippin had gone off with Gandalf, but here Merry had been left, and in truth there was little he could contribute to this battle, no matter the willingness of his heart.

Merry turned back to Aragorn, his face brightening slightly.  "But the King did say I was to sit by him when he came to his house, and then tell him all about the Shire." 

"Yes," Aragorn agreed, smiling softly, "and your path lies with him, I think."  The man came forward and laid a hand on Merry's shoulder.  "But do not look for mirth at the ending, Merry," he continued quietly.  "It will be long, I fear, before Theoden sits at ease again in Meduseld."

Merry frowned at Aragorn's brooding words, but the man looked away from the hobbit's gaze and lifted his eyes once again to the horizon, searching out the direction of Minas Tirith.  "Many hopes will wither in this bitter spring," he said.

*

Soon they were riding swiftly through the night, numbering twenty-four in all, with Merry riding in front of Aragorn and Gimli seated behind Legolas.  They made good time, going as quietly as they could, and yet as they rode Legolas felt every now and then that they were being followed.  He turned often to look over his shoulder, until Gimli became tired of the elf's restless movements and demanded an explanation.

"What is it, Legolas?" the Dwarf asked finally.  "You're as fidgety as a Dwarf who's thought he's found a vein of mithril!"

Legolas glanced back to Gimli, then shook his head.  "I am sorry, Gimli.  It is just that…" he twisted to look over his shoulder again, sweeping his eyes over the soldiers behind, counting them quickly, searching for any hidden movement.  There was nothing out of place; only the soft footsteps of the horses in the grass, the subtle shifting of armor and chain mail, the creaking of leather saddles.

"Confound it, elf!" Gimli burst out in frustration.  "If you don't come out with it right now…!"

"We are being followed," Legolas said at last, keeping his voice low.  He didn't want to alarm anyone until he was sure of it.

Gimli was silent for a moment, contemplating the meaning of Legolas' words.  "Perhaps it is the remainder of King Theoden's company?" the Dwarf suggested at last, but his voice betrayed even his own doubts about that idea.

Legolas frowned.  "No," he said slowly, "not them…"

There was another moment of silence and then Gimli spoke again.  "Well then why don't we ride back and find out who it is?"

Legolas considered the proposal, looking over to Aragorn, but the man rode beside Theoden and didn't seem to notice anything unusual.  Still, the Elf hesitated to leave the Company.  Gimli, however, had no reservations.

"Come on, Legolas!" he goaded.  "What are you waiting for?  Turn this horse around!"

Legolas began to turn Steadyfoot, but before he could move out from the group a Rider galloped past them from the rear of the line, coming to ride alongside the King.  

"My Lord," the man said urgently to Theoden, "there are horsemen behind us.  As we crossed the fords I thought I heard them.  Now we are sure."

Legolas felt Gimli nudge him but refused to acknowledge the Dwarf.  He turned all of his attention to the Rider.

"They are overtaking us," the soldier said, "and riding hard."

Theoden called a halt, and the Riders turned around to face the way they had come, catching up their spears.  Aragorn dismounted, setting Merry on the ground, and drew his sword, taking up a spot next to the King.  Legolas rode up beside Aragorn and let Gimli slide off before he also dismounted.  The Dwarf took up his axe, the sharp edge of which gleamed a white line in the moonlight.  Legolas readied an arrow, but did not raise his bow.  Merry stood uncertainly for a moment, looking around at the men who stood above him.  Then it seemed he came to decision, and he tightened his belt and drew his sword, facing front with determination.

Legolas kept his eyes ahead, until the moon came fully clear of a great cloud, and then the Elf saw many dark figures riding quickly on the path from the fords of Isen.  The points of their spears glinted dully in the night and Legolas counted their horses.  There were thirty in all.  But he could not make out their features or their garb, and so he could not determine whether they were friend or foe.

They rode closer, and Legolas raised his bow, his fingers only lightly holding back the deadly strike of his arrow.  He waited tensely for a command from the King.    The mysterious group of riders reached some fifty paces off before Éomer called out to them, his voice clear and loud.  "Halt!  Halt!  Who rides in Rohan?"

The pursuers brought their mounts to a stop, but all remained quiet for a long moment.  There was no answering reply.  Instead a lone horseman of the group dismounted and walked slowly forward, holding his palm outward in a sign of peace.  But Legolas did not lower his bow.  Gimli shifted on his feet, hefting his axe, and the King's men gripped their spears more tightly.  The man stopped at ten paces, though none yet could see his face, and then he spoke at last.

"Rohan?" he asked.  "Rohan did you say?  Now that is a glad word.  We come from afar, and seek that land in haste."

"And so you have found it," Éomer answered, but his voice still carried heavy suspicion of these strangers.  "When you crossed the fords you entered it.  But this is the realm of Theoden the King.  None ride here save by his leave.  Who are you?  And what is your errand that needs such haste?"

"Halbarad Dúnaden, Ranger of the North I am," the man answered confidently.  "We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan."

Legolas narrowed his eyes at the words, his hold on the bow wavering.  Ranger of the North?  They would be Aragorn's kin then, unless this was an evil trickery sent after them by Saruman… he steadied his hold on the arrow.

There was a brief silence as the King's men looked to each other in confusion, but then Aragorn suddenly burst out from them and ran forward to embrace the stranger.  "Halbarad!" Aragorn exclaimed, greeting the man warmly.  "Of all the joys this is the least expected!"

Legolas lowered his bow and put away his arrow; Aragorn's words were enough to convince him these strangers were not an evil trickery.  Both Gimli and Merry exhaled a sigh of relief, sheathing their weapons.

"All is well," Aragorn said, turning around again to face the King.  "These are my kin, come from my home.  But why they have come, and how many, I do not know."  He looked to Halbarad, and the man nodded to Aragorn.

"I have thirty with me," he said.  "That is all that could be gathered in our haste.  But the brethren Elladen and Elrohir have ridden with us as well.  We rode as swiftly as we could when your summons came."

Legolas looked inquiringly at Aragorn, wondering how the man could have sent out word to his fellow Rangers.  The Elf didn't recall Aragorn ever speaking of such a thing, nor had he ever seen Aragorn send any kind of messenger.  Unless it had been done while he was still in Minas Tirith…

"But I did not summon you," Aragorn said, frowning in confusion.  "I often thought of you, yet I have sent no word."

Legolas blinked, suddenly remembering Galadriel's message to Aragorn, given to them by Gandalf in Fangorn Forest:

_Where now are the Dunedain, Elessar, Elessar?_

_Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?_

_Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,_

_And the Grey Company ride from the North._

_But dark is the path appointed for thee:_

_The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea._

Then Galadriel had seen this riding of the Grey Company from the North.  She had seen even more than that, Legolas guessed, but to him the rest of her words still made little sense.  Aragorn had sent no word to his kindred, but someone had.  Likely it had been Galadriel herself, and Legolas silently thanked her.  Clearly the arriving of the Company had brightened Aragorn's spirits, and they would need all the help they could get soon enough.

"But come," Aragorn said, unwilling to talk more in this open land, "all such matters must wait.  We ride in haste and danger, Halbarad.  Ride with us now, if the King will give his leave?"

Theoden nodded gladly.  "Of course I will give my leave," he said.  "If these kinsmen are in any way like yourself, my lord Aragorn, thirty such knights will be a strength that cannot be counted by heads."

Halbarad bowed deeply in acknowledgement, and then all who had dismounted swung aboard their horses once more, and the two companies set out together for Helm's Deep.

*

The East had turned an ashen gray by the time they reached the Deeping Coomb, and in the early dawn the stone tower of the Hornburg loomed above them like a living giant.  Legolas squinted up at its height and remembered the thundering call of the Horn of Helm Hammerhand.  It had nearly deafened him; its booming voice shook the very foundations of the fortress and struck sudden doubt into the hearts of their attackers.  

The Elf's eyes fell next to the broken wall, now only a silhouette in the sun's new light, and he bowed his head.  The horses walked quietly past the mounds of graves and Legolas closed his eyes against the sight, putting a hand to his chest and muttering a brief prayer.  

All the rest of the company passed by in silence, for they were weary of their travel and wary of returning to their old battleground.  Slowly they wound up the great stone ramp; the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves was the only sound that echoed through the quiet morning.  The heavily battered front gates creaked open before them, and King Theoden and his men were welcomed once again to Helm's Deep.

Weary man and beast were eager to get some rest, and Legolas arrived in the main throne room after taking care of his horse to find that most of the men had already gone to their rooms.  A few were scattered about on the floor, lying on furs and wrapped in blankets.  He smiled as he noticed Gimli and Merry, both already deeply asleep and snoring.  But Aragorn was not among them, and with a start Legolas realized he had not seen the man for some time now.

Legolas left the throne room quickly, passing through the arched double doors into the dimly lit hallway.  He hesitated there a moment, not knowing which way to go first.  He heard footsteps fading away to his right and decided to follow them, quickening his pace to catch up. 

He rounded the curve in the hallway and saw Aragorn ahead, walking with his kinsman Halbarad, who carried a tall staff closely wrapped in black cloth.  "Aragorn!" Legolas called out, breaking into a trot to catch up to the men.

Aragorn turned around at his name, raising his eyebrows in question as the Elf approached.  "Yes, Legolas?"

Legolas noticed at once the covered palantìr in Aragorn's arms and frowned at his friend. "Aragorn," he said again, "you must get some rest.  We have traveled far this night, and the others are already sleeping."

Aragorn smiled at Legolas' concern and laid a hand on the Elf's shoulder.  "I took rest at Isengard, Legolas," the man said quietly.  "Now I must take thought, and only Halbarad shall go with me."

Legolas cast a sharp glance to Halbarad before looking to Aragorn again.  "But Aragorn –"

The man lifted a hand to silence the protest and shook his head.  "Do not trouble yourself over me, Legolas.  There is no need for worry.  This must be done."

But the Elf could easily read the strain in the man's voice.  "Do not take me for a fool, my friend," Legolas whispered softly.  "I know what you intend to do, and I do not think it is wise.  Not yet."

Aragorn sighed deeply, and the flickering of the torches echoed loudly against the stones in the moment of silence.  Halbarad looked from Elf to Man uncertainly.  Aragorn met Legolas' eyes evenly.  "It is my time, Legolas," he said finally. 

Legolas watched Aragorn closely, searching the man's face for the truth.  But at last he nodded, seeing the man would not be swayed in this matter.  "Then I will go with you," he said.

But Aragorn shook his head again.  "No, Legolas.  You must stay here."  He nodded his head toward the throne room.  "Watch over the others."

"Aragorn," Legolas objected immediately, "my place is at your side.  It always has been… I will not let you go alone."

A small smile lifted the corners of Aragorn's mouth and he gripped Legolas' arm appreciatively.  "I will not be alone, Legolas," the man said quietly.  "Halbarad shall be with me."

Legolas blinked, glancing from Halbarad to Aragorn and back again.  He did not understand.  Since Rivendell he had accompanied Aragorn and the others on the long journey of the Fellowship, and always he had been ready to defend them from any danger.  Since the breaking of the Fellowship he had not left Aragorn's side, and for the man to be ordering him away now did not seem right.  Halbarad had not endured the long, cold trek up the height of Caradhras, nor had he fought the troll in Moria, or run forty-five leagues in the pursuit of Merry and Pippin, or fought in the Battle of Helm's Deep.  Yet now in this hour of trial, an hour that could prove to be his darkest, Aragorn chose Halbarad to accompany him.

Legolas dropped his eyes to the floor, unwilling to let Aragorn see how much the thought hurt him.  He swallowed hard and nodded, then raised his eyes to Halbarad's and gave a slight bow.  Halbarad returned it with a nod.  

The Elf turned curtly to Aragorn.  "Use caution, Aragorn," he warned softly, "and wisdom."

Aragorn nodded gravely, and with a last long look at his friend Legolas spun on his heel and headed back toward the throne room.

"Legolas?" Aragorn spoke up suddenly.

The Elf stopped, turning around to face the man.  

"You are a dear friend to me.  But Halbarad is my kin."

Legolas clenched his jaw at the words, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.  He gave a nod in Aragorn's direction, then turned away wordlessly and disappeared around the curve of the hallway.

***

Laimea sat in the orchard, staring ahead into nothingness, trying not to think.  She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and sleep tugged at her weary body persistently.  She had nearly drifted off when soft footsteps jolted her awake again.

She sat up straight, blinking rapidly to try and clear her head, and looked around the clearing.  But she saw no one, and the footsteps paused.  Laimea stood up, her hand going to rest carefully on Nimrunya's haft.  The footsteps came again, ever so briefly, and Laimea whirled to face them, feeling her heartbeat quicken.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but every muscle in her body was ready for action.  "Anya?" she called timidly, hoping it was only her mother coming to talk to her again.  But there was no answer to her call.  

Laimea moved forward a few paces but hesitated to go any farther.  The dead trees around her seemed to be more twisted, more frightening, as if their limbs reached out for her.  Her grip on her sword tightened.

"Anya?" she called again, a little louder this time.  Still she got no answer.  A breeze kicked up, whistling through the trees and making the bare branches sway ominously.  Another strong gust of wind followed soon after the first and Laimea had to brace herself against its force. 

She closed her eyes against it, and when she opened them again she found herself no longer in her orchard but on a vast plain of battle.  The ground was blackened and torn with giant rifts; sharp black rocks jutted like teeth from the edges and speared toward the smoke laden sky.  She stared up in awe at the volcano erupting just leagues away; it belched black ash and red hot embers enough to hide the sun for years on end.  Her ears were deafened by its rumbling and by the sounds of the battle.

Laimea pulled her eyes away from the smoking mountain and looked out over the plain.  Thousands upon thousands fought there, the silver armor of the Men clashing with the black and twisted armor of the Orcs.  And then she saw the Elves, splendid in their crested helmets and swirling capes, fighting among the ranks of Men.  She drew in a sharp breath as she realized where she was.

Nimrunya burned in her hand and Laimea dropped the sword quickly, backing away from it as it began to glow with an inner light.  She squinted against it as the light grew brighter, and then with a flash her father stood before her, holding the sword out to her in grave seriousness.

Laimea stood rigidly, unable to move.  She stared at her father, whose features she had not seen for so many long years, and tried to find something – anything – to say.  But no words would come to her.  He smiled softly at her, and then he vanished.

Laimea cried out, reaching for him, but he was gone.  She blinked, slowly realizing she looked at her bedroom wall, her hands gripping her blankets.  She glanced around the room wildly, but there was no remnant of her father or the battle she had just seen seconds before.  

Laimea sucked in a shuddering breath and forced herself to let it out slowly, trying to calm her racing heart.  Sweat covered her body and she put a hand to her head, brushing strands of damp hair away from her face.  _A dream_, she told herself.  _It was a dream, nothing more._  She looked to the window and found the barest hint of dawn in the sky.

She remembered now.  She had come in from the orchard not long after Anya had left, and had gone to her room in hope of some rest.  At last she had given in to sleep, and then she had dreamed…

Laimea frowned, her eyes falling to rest on Nimrunya, lying in its sheath in the corner by her bed.  She threw back the covers and went to the sword, unsheathing it anxiously.  She held up the blade in the dim light of the window and peered at it, waiting for it to glow.  

Nothing happened.

She sighed; sheathing the weapon again and laying it carefully back in place.  But the dream… it had seemed so real… and why would she dream about the Battle of the Last Alliance?  And her father… Laimea straightened swiftly, remembering for the first time in years the large chest Anya had brought with them when they had first come to Gondor.

Anya had always kept it locked and Laimea had never before wanted to look inside; the things in her past had been too painful to chance remembering.  But now she needed to know.  That chest had belonged to her father, and she could no longer wait to find out what was inside of it.

Laimea grabbed Nimrunya and left her room, heading straight for where she knew the chest would be.  Anya's bedroom.

            Laimea went through the kitchen, stopping at the table to light the lantern there.  She waited until the flame grew steady, then picked up the lamp and tiptoed back toward Anya's room.  The heavy wooden door was partially open, and Laimea peered through the crack cautiously.  She had not seen Anya since the woman had left the orchard, and Laimea wondered if she had even come back to the house yet.

            The bed was empty.  Frowning, Laimea gently pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on the hinges.  She moved into the bedroom, still looking around for any signs of her foster mother.  But the sheets on the bed were still neatly made.  Laimea went to the window, looking outside to the silvery sky of dawn, but Anya was not within her sight.  

            Laimea sighed, giving up, knowing Anya had probably gone into the city to seek solitude after their argument.  She didn't mind.  It would probably be better if Anya weren't around to see what she was about to do, anyway.  Laimea knelt on the floor and set the lantern down beside her, leaning over to look under the bed.  She saw the chest immediately, looming like a dark shadow beneath the bed's wooden frame.  It was rather large, made of a finely carved, very dark wood.

            Laimea moved the lantern closer, noticing for the first time the pictures engraved on the outside of the trunk.  She squinted at them, thinking the small figures looked very much like an armament of Elves ready for battle.  She remembered her dream and grasped the sides of the chest with renewed determination.  She pulled it out from under the bed slowly, grunting at its weight, and then sat back on her heels to study it.

            The lock was heavy but very old, and Laimea reached forward to touch the partially rusted metal.  She shook her head, then looked up and searched the room with her eyes for a place where Anya might keep the key.  She stood, picking up the lantern, and went to the woman's wardrobe, looking through the drawers and clothes.  But that search came up empty.  Laimea tried feeling beneath the straw mattress and peering through the cracks of the floor planks, but still she found no key.

            Frustrated, she went back to the chest and stared at it, deep in thought.  Anya most likely kept the key herself, if it was not here, and Laimea did not have time to wait for the woman to return or to argue with her about the key when she did return.  Laimea came to a decision finally and took Nimrunya from the floor, unsheathing the blade carefully.  The sword glimmered orange in the lantern light as Laimea positioned herself to one side of the chest.  She took a deep breath, raising the blade high over her head and taking careful aim at the lock.  

            She brought the sword down with all her might and sparks flew as metal clashed upon metal.  But the lock held firm.  Laimea raised the sword again, determined to get into the chest.  She hacked downwards again, letting out a short cry as Nimrunya's blade jarred against the lock.  She nearly lost her hold on the sword, but as she staggered to regain her balance she saw the broken lock fall to the floor.  Laimea hurried back to the chest, kneeling before it and smiling in triumph.  She set Nimrunya aside and turned all of her attention to the finely carved trunk.

            Laimea took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart.  She felt suddenly dizzy and had to close her eyes against it until it passed.  She sat still for a long moment afterwards, breathing deeply, trying to gather her wits.  At last she opened her eyes and leaned forward to grasp the sides of the lid.  But then she hesitated once more.

            Did she really want to open it?  Did she really want to see what was inside?  It had been locked up for so long… she had tried to forget for so long… Laimea bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut.  This was it.  She had to decide _now_.  If she looked inside this chest she knew there would be no turning back.  She would have to face her past – and her future – and there would be no more hiding.

            Laimea let out a quivering breath, one hand going down to rest lightly over the old wound on her left thigh.  The wound had almost fully healed, but the spot was still tender to the touch.  Laimea couldn't help but think of what would have happened to her if Legolas had not been there.  She sighed heavily.  

            Ever since she had met Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, she had started to remember things… she had started to _allow_ herself to remember… and it had not been so painful.  Legolas' presence eased her anger toward his kind and reminded of her of all the things she had cherished about the Elves.  He was the only being who had ever been able to fill the empty space inside of her.  It was this realization that finally convinced Laimea she would never be able to live a whole life unless she acknowledged both sides of her heritage.

            She had accepted her human side easily enough, but as for her Elvish side… Laimea set her jaw and threw open the lid of the chest impulsively, not giving herself time to rethink the action.  She recognized the faint smell wafting from the inside the chest immediately; a smooth scent of leaves and earth.  It took her far back into her past, jarring to life memories that had long been dead.  Memories of her mother and father, when they had been happy…

            Laimea swallowed hard, reaching for the lantern.  Her hand shook as she raised the light to shine inside the inky blackness of the trunk.  Her heart pounded furiously in her temples as the light crept slowly over the contents of the chest.  Laimea gasped at what she finally saw, one hand flying to her mouth, the other nearly dropping the lantern.  She stared for a long while, not daring to touch anything, hardly breathing.  She could only sit and think of her father, who had last used these things and then laid them away in this chest and carefully locked them up.

            At last Laimea brought herself to move, and she set the lantern down gently on the floor, reaching into the chest with both trembling hands to pick up the golden crested helmet.  She lifted it carefully, staring at it in awe as she turned it around in the light.  It was an Elven helmet of the First Age, supremely crafted and beautiful enough to be an object of art.  She traced her fingertips reverently over the swirled designs while her mind reached back to her dream.  The Elves had worn these helmets…  She turned it around to look at the front and saw for the first time the two small Elvish runes engraved on the nose-guard: GG.  She frowned, wondering what it meant, but at last she set the helmet down next to the lantern and moved on.

            Laimea next picked up a long cloak made of Elven silk so soft it felt as smooth as water to the touch.  She marveled at it as she held it up; its reddish color shimmered silver and gold in the lantern flame, as if the cloak itself were threaded with light.  She put it aside reluctantly, only able to take her eyes off of it in curiosity of what else the chest contained.

            The third item in the chest was a cuirass attached by a few leather straps to a fauld; Laimea recognized it as a piece of First Age armor as well.   She had seen its shape in paintings of the Battle of Dagorlad, the War of the Last Alliance, when she was a little girl.  But to see a piece of that history for herself, and to hold it, was quite different than to see it in a painting.  She studied the armor closely, thinking the interlacing lames of the breastplate were just as beautifully made as the helmet and cloak.  She squinted at a small badge attached to the V of the breastplate, realizing it was a heraldic emblem.  Twelve stars in a midnight blue sky… Laimea thought hard, struggling to remember the insignias of the Elves.  But she could not remember.  She had spent too many years trying to forget.  She sighed in disappointment and added the cuirass and fauld to her growing pile next to the lantern.

            The sun had come up over the horizon by the time Laimea fully emptied the chest.  She sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, surrounded by the pieces of a full suit of Elvish armor.  The helmet, cloak, cuirass and fauld were on her right; on her left was a neatly folded shirt of Elven silk, a long sleeved hauberk of extremely light mail, a pair of long leather gloves, a long, richly decorated skirt, a carved leather belt, and a pair of golden bracers and pauldrons that gleamed in the light.  Laimea sat in the middle of it, her eyes wandering from piece to piece, but she found herself at a loss.  She did not know what meaning this armor held, nor did she know how she could get any use from it.  She knew only that it had once been her father's, and he had worn it during the War of the Last Alliance.

            Laimea looked once more into the chest, thinking maybe she had missed something.  Surely there had to be a reason why Anya had kept this chest?  The armor did not seem significant enough.  There had to be something else…

            "It's not there, child."

            Laimea yelped in surprise, jumping to her feet and whirling to face the door of the bedroom.  Anya stood there, looking to the young woman impassively and holding a small bundle in her hand. 

            Laimea stared at the woman, opening her mouth to offer an explanation before Anya could fly into a rage over the opened chest.  But Laimea's words faltered as she realized what Anya had said.  She stared at her foster mother as the elderly woman walked calmly across the room to stand in front of her.

            "You were looking for the last item," Anya whispered gruffly.  "It was never kept in the chest.  It is here."  She held out the bundle to Laimea.

            Laimea blinked, not understanding.  Anya should have been furious, but instead she acted as if she couldn't see the open chest or the armor strewn about all over the floor.  Laimea looked into Anya's eyes and saw how red they were.  The woman had been crying.

            Laimea reached out silently and took the small object from Anya's hand.  It was wrapped in heavy silk and Laimea slowly began to remove the covering, her motions hesitant.  She still did not understand, and Anya's actions only confused her farther.  The woman said nothing; watching Laimea's hands expectantly.

            At last Laimea pulled the silk free, and again she sucked in a breath at the sight that met her eyes.  A small Elvish dagger rested in her palm, curved as if it were a miniature version of Nimrunya, its blade shining nearly as bright.  The dark wood handle was carved with an intricate insignia inlaid with gold designs and tiny white and blue gems.  Laimea brought her eyes up to Anya sharply, and though she could not bring herself to speak Anya understood her expression perfectly.

            "That is the sign of the house of Galadriel," Anya whispered quietly, tears coming to her eyes once again.  "You hold the dagger of the noble line of Olwë," the woman choked out, and Laimea could see Anya struggling to control herself.

            But the news of the dagger overwhelmed Laimea as well, and she shook her head, trying to give the knife back to Anya.  The woman would not take it.  "But... I do not understand," Laimea sputtered.  "How is it possible… how could _you_ have this?"

            Anya closed her eyes, letting the tears slip from her lashes, and took a deep breath.  "The Lady Galadriel gave it to me the day we took leave of the Elves," the woman said softly.  "I was… angry… and I did not want to take it, but she convinced me at last."  Anya opened her eyes, taking Laimea's hands into her own and closing them over the dagger.  "She bade me give this to you, to help guide you home lest you ever forget yourself."

            Laimea stared at her foster mother, unbelieving.  Anya released her hands and moved away, coming to a stop on the other side of the room.  Her face became angry and Laimea feared for a moment she would see the Anya she was used to when it came to the subject of Elves.  But instead the woman continued her story.  

            "I vowed to myself I would never give it to you," Anya admitted harshly.  "I wanted nothing to do with the Elves after we left, and I hated the thought of you carrying around such a trinket of theirs.  So I hid it away, and kept it from you."  Anya shook her head, dabbing at the tears on her cheeks with the end of her skirt.  "I thought I could protect you, Laimea," she said sadly.  "I have done all I could.  But now I see I cannot stop what is happening.  I cannot stop what _will_ happen.  There is nothing more I can do for you, child.  So I have given you that knife, in hopes that it will serve its purpose, and help to guide you in ways I cannot."  The woman took a deep, shuddering breath, shaking her head as she looked at the dagger.  "I fear it will lead you down a path of destruction… a path I have tried to keep from you for the whole of your life.  But I have done all I could."  Anya raised her dark teary eyes to Laimea's face, and the girl was struck with the depth of love and fear she saw there.  "The rest is up to you, child," Anya croaked thickly.  She turned away from Laimea abruptly and went toward the door as if she were about to leave, but then she stopped in the doorway.

            "The armor," Anya said, her voice trembling, "was your father's.  He left it for you… it has been altered to fit your form."

            Laimea felt a lump in her throat at the words.  She swallowed hard, moving woodenly toward the armor.  She laid the dagger down carefully on the folded cloak and lifted the helmet, holding it in her hands gingerly and trying to imagine her father wearing it into battle.  What a sight he must have made, charging forward in such armor, holding Nimrunya up to shine its light through the blackness of Mordor…

            "For me…" Laimea breathed, making neither a statement nor a question.  Anya turned in the doorway, watching her foster daughter gingerly admire the piece of Elven war craft.  "For me?" Laimea finally asked, turning to face Anya.  "But _why_?"

            Anya met Laimea's eyes once more, her gnarled hands clasping her apron anxiously.  "Because, my child," she said quietly, "your father knew one day you would ride out to war... sometimes I think he knew it even before you were born.  And he believed his daughter should ride out wearing the finest armor in Middle-Earth."

Laimea felt goosebumps race over her skin, seeing the image from her dream of her father holding out Nimrunya to her.  He had given her the sword just days before he'd left.  _This sword I give to you, my daughter.  It has seen battle before, and it will see battle again.  Wield it wisely, and evil will fall before you._  Laimea stiffened.  She had been too young to understand at the time, but now the meaning of the words was clear.

Laimea suddenly frowned, remembering all too well her and Anya's argument in the orchard just the night before.  Anya had been adamant about keeping Laimea in the Healing House during the coming war, and now she seemed to be accepting the fact that Laimea would ride out to fight herself.  "I don't understand," Laimea protested at last, tired of trying to understand her foster mother.

            Anya sighed deeply.  "Laimea," she whispered, coming from the doorway to stand before the girl and place a wrinkled palm against Laimea's cheek.  "I do not want you to fight this war.  I wish against it with every part of my heart.  But I cannot keep you from doing what you feel is right.  That is beyond my power, or my will.  I cannot bear to see you unhappy, my child.  I cannot bear to see such suffering on your face.  Take your father's armor and that trinket dagger; ride out to fight for Minas Tirith!  There is only one thing left I would beg of you, child, just one thing I would ask of you…"

            Laimea placed her hand over the old woman's, pressing the warm palm into her cheek.  "What is it, mother?" she asked softly.

            Anya searched deep within Laimea's eyes, her face becoming deathly serious.  The woman's other hand came up to rest against Laimea's other cheek and when she spoke her voice was low and heavy.  "Do not fall in love with the Elves, Laimea," the woman warned.  "Do not let yourself be smitten with them.  Stay away from that Legolas, Laimea.  _Please_.  For my sake and for your own."

            Laimea rolled her eyes at the words, pulling away roughly from Anya's grip on her face.  So the woman had not changed.  She was still the same hateful Anya.  Laimea stalked to the piles of armor and began to gather up the pieces.

            "Laimea," Anya started, but Laimea ignored her.  It was one thing for Anya to warn her about the Elves; Laimea had her own grievances with that race.  But she was tired of hearing the woman talk badly about Legolas when all he had ever done was good.  Laimea was determined to hear no more of it.  She managed to pick up all the pieces of armor and headed for the door.

            "Laimea!" Anya called after her.  "Please listen to me!  Do not let them take your life from you!  Do not let them hurt you again… Laimea!"

            But the girl was already out the door and making her way through the kitchen.  She went into her own bedroom, setting the pieces of armor down on her bed, and then she turned and slammed the door shut, bolting it firmly.  

            Only then did she focus once more on her father's gift to her.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then started to sort through the pieces carefully.  It was time to see if this armor fit.

            Outside Laimea's window the sunlight darkened.  The gloom of Mordor slowly grew, swallowing Osgiliath into shadow and reaching for the city of Minas Tirith in evil greed.  It was almost time.

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	10. The Words of the Seer

**A/N:** Well, here it is at long last! Once again, a lot of the dialogue is taken from the book toward the end of this chapter, in order to more closely align this story with the books. I do not claim those words as my own; they are Tolkien's and always will be! I simply decided to try and keep as much of Tolkien's dialogue as I can when I can. It just seems to give this fic more credibility, if you know what I mean. If you REALLY want to know which words are taken from the books, you can email me and I'll tell you, or you can just go read the books for yourselves and find out! Thanks also to MooKitty, my WONDERFUL beta for this chapter! Much love goes out to her, for she keeps me sane! I'm hoping Chapter 11 and 12 will be able to be posted together, just to reward you all for being so patient! But we'll see how that works out. So once more, thanks for hanging in there, and I desperately hope this chapter doesn't bore you to tears! (I promise things are about to start happening… )

**Chapter 10: The Words of the Seer**

Legolas stood on the wall of the Keep, looking out over the now-familiar view of the Deeping-coomb and the distant peaks of the Misty Mountains. He stared eastward, frowning deeply at the sight that met his far-seeing eyes. The darkness of Mordor was growing; the sky darkening. The Elf shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to the tall windows of the Keep and wishing this delay was not necessary. They did not have time to linger here. Every passing moment brought the danger closer to Gondor, closer to Minas Tirith... closer to Laimea.

Legolas clenched his fists at his sides, refusing the urge to pace again, and closed his eyes, attempting instead to meditate. His impatience disturbed him; it wasn't like him to feel so restless. But so much had changed since the forming of the Fellowship… the end of their journey was nearing, this much he could sense.

The final attack from Sauron would come soon. The morning now was bright, but the air reeked of evil. Things were too quiet, too still. Even the birds had gone silent. It made Legolas uneasy.

He opened his eyes again, unable to focus his mind on anything except the impending attack on Minas Tirith. Aragorn had said they would go there, but Legolas knew time was running out. He looked back to the windows of the Keep, thinking of Aragorn and Halbarad, and sighed deeply.

They had to leave soon. To stay at the fortress much longer would mean finding only ruin where Gondor's proudest city had once stood. Ruin… and death. Legolas swallowed, turning to face the graves that spread below him. So many already had died in this war, and it was still far from over…

Footsteps upon the stone interrupted his thoughts and Legolas was jolted back to the memory of the night he had first met Laimea. It seemed so long ago, but indeed it had only been a few days past. He closed his eyes again, easily recalling the sight of her face in the soft moonlight. If only he could be with her now, to ensure she was safe and would remain safe throughout the rest of this war. If only he could spend one more quiet night with her, holding her close, watching the beauty of her slumber in the fire's orange glow, letting her peacefulness calm the restlessness of his heart. He would set right whatever had gone wrong that night in Minas Tirith. He would tell her exactly how he felt for her. He would make her understand… if only…

If only he could see her again. But she was out of his reach now, like so many others. Legolas exhaled deeply, opening his eyes and looking out to the brightening sunrise. He hated this feeling of uselessness, of helplessness. Never in his life had he felt at such a loss. Frodo and Sam had been separated from the Fellowship long ago, and had passed far beyond his reach. He had left Laimea behind in Minas Tirith, and there was now little he could do to protect her. The shadow of Mordor grew with every passing day, but it was not yet time to ride against that threat. And now Aragorn had withdrawn as well, choosing Halbarad to accompany him with the _palantìr_ instead, and Legolas was left outside, standing on the empty wall in the silent morning, staring down at the destruction left in the wake of a great battle. There was nothing he could do for any of them now... nothing he could do except wait.

Legolas recognized Gimli's heavy footfalls as the Dwarf came closer along the wall and then finally stopped beside the Elf. Legolas waited a moment in the silence, then glanced sideways to see Gimli staring at him disapprovingly. The Elf raised an eyebrow, prompting Gimli to speak at last.

"I know Elves do not sleep," the Dwarf said rather loudly, "but surely you require some type of rest! Why aren't you inside, with the others?"

Legolas took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He rested his palms on top of the wall, feeling the stone beginning to warm beneath the morning sun. "I cannot find rest, Gimli, whether I would need it or not. There are too many things that need to be done, and we are running out of time."

Gimli followed the Elf's gaze, looking out toward far away Gondor. "The East is growing darker," the Dwarf murmured after a quiet moment.

Legolas looked down to his friend briefly. "Yes. Sauron's attack will come soon."

Gimli raised his eyes to meet the Elf's. "You are worried for the Lady Laimea."

Legolas turned away from the Dwarf at the statement. He hated to think his thoughts were so obvious. But Gimli had read him well, and Legolas could not hide the truth from his friend. "I fear for her safety," the Elf admitted reluctantly. "When Sauron strikes he will spare no one, and I am too far away now to protect her."

"You do not trust the soldiers of Gondor will protect her?"

Legolas looked abruptly over his shoulder to Gimli, his gaze much sharper than he intended. "She should not even be _in_ the City," the Elf stated, his voice harsh with condemnation. "She should have ridden south long ago, with the other women. There is no reason for her to endanger herself this way…" he fell silent, surprised at his sudden anger. He looked away from Gimli, facing the Deeping-coomb once more and trying to calm himself. But he knew what he said was true. There was no reason for her to stay in the place of greatest danger during this battle. No reason… except her own stubbornness.

He had once been afraid she would go south, and the errand rider's answer to his question had been a relief: _No, no. Not her. Gondor needs all of its riders these days._ Now that answer was torment. Surely the rider had meant she was needed only as an errand rider. They could not mean for her to stay as a soldier of war.

"Perhaps she has left the City by now," Gimli suggested helpfully, voicing Legolas' only hope.

Legolas frowned, knowing Laimea would want to stay in the City and fight, wondering if Lord Denethor or the Captains of Gondor's army would allow such a thing. He prayed they would not. Laimea was a fine errand rider, and she could hold her own in a fight, but Legolas did not trust her battle skills enough to believe she could survive the war that was coming.

And, in truth, he trusted no one other than himself to keep her safe. If he could not be at her side in this battle, then he wanted her as far away from the fighting as she could get. Legolas had pledged his protection to the Fellowship, and he would carry out that duty to the end, whether for good or ill. Laimea could not be allowed to fight… because if she was, there would be nothing he could do to protect her.

"Legolas?" Gimli inquired uncertainly.

The Elf blinked, forcing himself to focus on the present, and looked down to the Dwarf.

"The girl may be a fine rider," Gimli assured Legolas, "but no Captain would let her fight as a soldier."

Legolas watched Gimli for a moment, taking comfort in the Dwarf's confident tone. The Elf nodded at last and smiled slightly, grateful for such a companion as Gimli. "Perhaps you are right," he conceded.

Gimli grunted, pulling out the pipe Pippin had given him when they'd first reunited in Isengard. "Of course I am right," he said, filling the pipe with a pinch of Longbottom Leaf and lighting it. "You have no reason to worry about her, Legolas. She will be safe enough in Gondor. And we will ride to their aid soon enough… perhaps there I will have a chance to even up our score!"

Legolas smiled unexpectedly, remembering Gimli's outrage in the White Mountains at having found out a battle had taken place without him. "You shall have to kill very swiftly indeed, Gimli, if you wish to even our count. For in the time it takes your axe to kill one Orc my arrows have already killed four."

Gimli nearly choked on his smoke at the claim, and he turned his dark eyes toward Legolas quickly, their depths alight with the fire of battle. "That is a bold boast you make, friend Elf. But I'm afraid I find it lacking in truth."

"Do you?"

Gimli gave a firm nod, blowing a great ring of smoke from his mouth. "Indeed I do. In fact I should wager on it."

Legolas crossed his arms, turning to face Gimli with a look of amusement on his face. "And what wager would you make? I have already agreed to accompany you into the caves beneath this fortress."

"Aye, so you have," Gimli acknowledged. "And in return I have agreed to accompany you into Fangorn Forest. But if my axe should slay more Orcs than your arrows, then I say you must try a little of this Longbottom Leaf!"

"What?" Legolas blurted, surprised by such an unusual suggestion.

"If you cannot uphold your boasting," Gimli repeated, "then when all of this fighting is over with, you must promise to try some of this Leaf."

"Gimli, you know I cannot abide smoking."

"You have never tried it!" the Dwarf exclaimed. "It could do well for an Elf like yourself… help you relax."

"Unlikely," Legolas answered shortly.

Gimli shrugged. "That is my wager, Elf. If you admit you cannot outscore me in the end," he cast Legolas a knowing look, "_even_ with the nine you slew behind my back, then do not take it."

He faced the front again, making a great show of smoking his pipe, but Legolas saw the hint of a smile beneath the thick red beard. The Elf smiled himself, shaking his head hopelessly. He could not disappoint the Dwarf.

"Very well, Gimli," he said at last. "I will take your wager."

Gimli glanced to the Elf from the corner of his eye.

"But," Legolas spoke up promptly, seeing the opportunity to get some answers out of this ridiculous bet, "if you lose your wager, you must tell me what _murtakk or elgi-u-galaz_ means."

It was Gimli's turn to be surprised. He blew out another cloud of smoke hastily. "I told you before, Legolas, it would be better if the Lady Laimea told you, and not I."

Legolas stepped forward, trapping Gimli under his fervent stare. "I may never get the chance, Gimli," he said truthfully. "If I am able, then I will ask her myself. But if not, then you must promise to tell me the meaning."

Gimli looked away from the Elf's intense gaze, hesitating in his answer. "_If_ you win the score…" he reiterated after a moment.

Legolas nodded. "Yes. If I win the score you will tell me?"

Gimli thought for another seemingly long moment, his eyes gazing off into the east. At last he took a deep breath and nodded his agreement. "If you win this wager, and you do not find out from her, then I will tell you what it means." He looked back to Legolas. "But if you _lose_ this wager-"

"I will try your Longbottom Leaf," Legolas assured him, though he made a face of displeasure even at the thought of it.

"Good then," Gimli commented, though he did not feel quite so confident as before. He tried to shake off the feeling of unease that suddenly washed over him; walking away from Legolas before the Elf's keen eyes could notice any change.

"Come, Legolas," Gimli said abruptly. "Let us look around this place and see what they have done since we last left it!"

Legolas watched after Gimli as the Dwarf made his way toward the stairs to the Keep, trailing smoke behind him. The Elf glanced to the east one last time, then brought his eyes back to the once-broken wall, now nearly rebuilt. _The wall that fell has risen again_, he thought distantly. _The people of Rohan have renewed themselves_. He looked up to the windows where Aragorn had gone. _The King of Gondor rides with us, and soon he will return to Minas Tirith._ The Elf swept his eyes over the wall to the graves below. _There is still hope… they did not die in vain._

Legolas' eyes stopped on Haldir's grave, and for a moment he was frozen, feeling a great resolve settle within him. He would see no more of his friends die in this war. Sauron's attack on Gondor had to fail… the rest of it was up to Frodo and Sam….

Legolas folded his right arm across his chest, dipping his head low. "Lissenen ar' maska'lalaith tenna' lye omentuva," Sweet water and light laughter till next we meet he whispered to the dead, and with that he turned and went swiftly after Gimli.

Laimea stood in her bedroom, fully clad in the suit of Elvish armor, and marveled at how light it all was. Although she wore several layers, she hardly felt any different than she did when dressed in her usual riding clothes. Even the helmet with its tall crest seemed weightless, and though the cheek guards pressed close to her face, the eye slit offered an unobstructed view both to the front and to the sides.

Laimea lifted Nimrunya, testing the flexibility of the armor by performing a series of sword moves. The cuirass and pauldrons moved as if they were a part of her body. Even the fauld and the long skirt did nothing to hinder her movements. Laimea lowered her sword at last, finding herself out of breath, and smiled. She was greatly impressed with this armor. Although she had never worn a suit of Gondorian armor, she had seen the way the men moved when wearing it. It was heavy and cumbersome, and would have been ill-suited for a woman.

Laimea's smile faded, her mind drifting back to her father. How had he known? _Your father knew one day you would ride out to war… sometimes I think he knew it even before you were born._

Laimea shook her head in bewilderment, moving back to her bed and picking up the dagger Anya had given her. The insignia of Galadriel on the knife's haft gleamed in the sunlight, making Laimea squint. Anya's words came back to her clearly… _She bade me give this to you, to help guide you home lest you ever forget yourself_. Laimea removed the leather gloves from her hands and ran a finger carefully over the white and blue jewels. _To help guide you home_… Laimea sighed heavily, dropping the knife back to the bed and removing the helmet from her head. She set it down beside the knife gently, then went to her window and looked out on the orchard.

The morning was quiet, the leaves of the trees blowing softly in the occasional breeze. Laimea bit her lip, remembering all too well the towering beauty of the mallorn trees in Lórien. She had blocked those trees from her memory long ago… and yet now they returned to mind with surprising clarity. She longed to return to them, to walk the secluded paths of the forest and lounge in the dappled shade….

Laimea turned away from the window abruptly, beginning to unfasten the buckles of the bracers and pauldrons. She could no longer deny that Lórien called to her, but it was not her home… _lest you ever forget yourself_. Laimea shook her head again, trying to get rid of the voices that echoed in her mind.

Gondor had been her home for far longer than Lórien, and though she shared the blood of the Eldar, Laimea knew she did not belong with them. The words she had spoken to Legolas those few nights ago were true; she would only feel out of place among them. The forest was indeed beautiful, but it also held dark memories for her. Her mother's grave still rested there, and no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to forget her last few days with her father; spent in innocent bliss beneath the wide branches of the mallorns.

_I will come back for you, and I will take you not only to Mirkwood, but to all the forests of the Elves._ Laimea closed her eyes as Legolas' words came back to her. It had been a simple offer, but one that had shocked Laimea back into memories of her past; strengthening her resolve to refuse Legolas' invitation.

Legolas had not known the implications of his words… he could not have known… and Laimea knew she should never have accepted his first proposal to take her Mirkwood. But it was too late to change what had happened…

She shrugged out of the cuirass, pondering her feelings for the Prince of Mirkwood. She had told Anya she would follow Legolas to any end, but that had been in the heat of an argument. She had no doubt he cared very deeply for her; the hurt apparent on his face the night she left him could not be a lie. And though Laimea wanted desperately to believe he would not abandon her on the shore of the sea, she could not quite convince herself of it.

Anya had spoken the truth when she'd said the sea-longing was very strong, and Legolas had never promised to stay behind. He had only reassured her that his time for leaving would be past the years of her life. _But how could he know?_ She asked herself in frustration. _And even if he did promise to stay behind with me… how long could he endure here, when every day the sea beckoned?_

Laimea removed the last piece of armor and sat down on her bed, a hand absently covering the old Orc wound on her thigh. _I would rather never see him again than have to watch him sail away_, she thought resolutely. She would not go to those shores again; not for any reason.

Laimea picked up the knife again, studying it as if it could answer all her questions. _Perhaps it is better that he left without speaking to me again_, she thought reluctantly. _Perhaps I should stop hoping for his return to Gondor and start listening to Anya._

But her heart ached at the thought of never seeing him again. She was not yet ready to let go of Legolas. Not yet… not with _murtakk or elgi-u-galaz_ as her goodbye to him. Not without knowing his true feelings for her… not without knowing if he would resist the sea-longing for her. No… she _had_ to see him again, one way or another. She had to have answers to her questions; she had to know the truth. At least then she would know what to do, whether it was to walk away from Legolas for good, or to follow him, as she had said before, to whatever end.

Laimea stood from the bed, sticking Galadriel's dagger into her belt. Yes, that is what she would do. She would find him again… somehow, and find out how he really felt for her. Then she would make known her feelings for him, and she could finally have some peace from all this uncertainty and confusion.

Feeling better now that she had made up her mind, Laimea carefully gathered the pieces of armor and placed them under her bed. She put Nimrunya back in its sheath at her waist and opened her bedroom door, peering out into the kitchen for Anya. But the woman was no where in sight. Laimea slipped quickly from her room and went outside, heading for the barn to get Morsul. She wanted to ride into the City and see what she could overhear about the war.

The morning was growing old and Theoden's men were beginning to rouse from their few hours of rest. The fortress was now filling with activity again as the men began to prepare for another long ride, and Legolas and Gimli moved inside to be out of the way of things.

There they found Merry still fast asleep on the floor of the throne room, and being that it was nearly noon, they decided to wake him. Legolas smiled down at the Hobbit fondly as Merry reluctantly stirred. He had sorely missed the lively company of Merry and Pippin during the past few weeks, and he was glad to have found them again, even if they had only gotten to visit together for a short time.

"The sun is high," Legolas told the groggy Hobbit. "The others are already up and doing. Come, Master Sluggard, and look at this place while you may!"

"There was a battle here thirteen nights ago," Gimli added, though at the moment Merry looked too tired to care. "And Legolas and I played a game that I won only by a single Orc." Gimli paused, tossing a look up to Legolas only to see the Elf regarding him skeptically. "Er… well… the other nine he killed were in my absence, and therefore cannot be counted in this score."

Legolas crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow at the Dwarf doubtfully, but Gimli ignored the expression and went on.

"Come and see how it was, Merry! And there are caves… caves of wonder!" He looked back to Legolas abruptly, a childlike wonder in his eyes at the mere thought of the Glittering Caves. "Shall we go visit them, Legolas, do you think?"

Legolas smiled at Gimli's eagerness, shaking his head. "No, Gimli! There is no time. Do not spoil the wonder with haste! I have already given my word to return here with you, if a day of peace and freedom comes again. But now it is near to noon, and at that hour we eat, and then we will set out again, I hear."

Merry yawned and got up at last, seemingly roused by so much talk. But he did not seem quite himself that morning, and Legolas wondered if it was because Pippin was missing. The Elf felt a touch of guilt weigh on his heart. He had been thinking selfishly of late. He was not the only one in this war who had been separated from someone he cared about…

"Where is Aragorn?" Merry asked as he shrugged into his vest.

Legolas' face grew serious. "In a high chamber of the Burg," he answered. "He has neither rested nor slept, I think. He went there some hours ago, saying he must take thought, and only Halbarad his kinsman went with him. Some dark doubt or care sits on him, I sense."

Gimli nodded in agreement. "They are a strange company, these newcomers," the Dwarf said. "Stout and lordly they are, and the Riders of Rohan look but as boys beside them, for they are grim men of face, worn like weathered rocks for the most part, even as Aragorn himself. And they are silent."

"But even as Aragorn they are courteous, if they break their silence," Legolas added. "And did you see the brethren Elladan and Elrohir?" he asked. "Their gear is less somber than the others', and they are as fair and gallant as Elven-lords. But that is not to be wondered at in the sons of Elrond of Rivendell."

"Why have they come?" asked Merry as he flung his grey cloak about his shoulders and fastened it. "Have you heard?"

"They answered a summons, as you heard," Gimli replied, and the three of them passed together out of the fortress toward the cracked gate of the Burg. "Word came to Rivendell, they say: _Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dúnedain ride to him in Rohan!_ But where this message came from they are now in doubt. Gandalf sent it, I would guess."

"No," Legolas spoke up suddenly, "it was Galadriel. Did she not speak through Gandalf of the ride of the Grey Company from the North?"

"Yes, you have it," Gimli agreed, beaming at the Elf's cleverness. "The Lady of the Wood! She read many hearts and desires."

_Did she?_ Legolas wondered, remembering again her message to him. Was it possible she knew of his feelings for Laimea? Was Galadriel's message to him about the sea-longing some kind of warning for him? _When thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, thy heart will then rest in the forest no more._ Legolas swallowed, unwilling to think of it that way.

"Now why didn't we wish for some of our own kinsfolk, Legolas?" Gimli asked, and at the question Legolas' thoughts drifted back to the months before he had come to Rivendell, when he had spent many long weeks struggling to hold back the onslaught of Orcs that had attacked Mirkwood's northern borders.

The Elf halted before the gate and turned his bright eyes away north and east, his fair face troubled. He wondered if his father had been able to maintain the defenses in the months since he had left. He could only hope. "I do not think that any would come," Legolas finally answered quietly. "They have no need to ride to war; war already marches on their own lands."

For awhile the three companions walked through the Burg, talking much of the past battle, until at last they turned and went to the great hall for the midday meal, where the King waited for them. But even as they ate Aragorn remained absent, and Legolas grew more and more concerned, berating himself for not putting forth more of an argument when the man had told him to stay with the others.

At last Théoden ordered the men to make ready to ride, and the king went with Merry and his guard out through the gate to where the riders were assembling on the green. Legolas and Gimli went with Éomer to seek out Aragorn and tell him the hour of their departure grew near.

They found him shortly, coming down one long hall of the Burg, followed closely by Halbarad, carrying the tall staff wrapped with black cloth, and the twins Elladan and Elrohir. Legolas drew up short at the sight of Aragorn, for the man had changed greatly since he had last left the company of his companions. He seemed to have aged many years in only the course of hours, and his face was pale and weary.

Legolas shot a look to Halbarad, but soon his gaze was drawn to the shining grey eyes of Elladan. The older Elf nodded slightly, giving Legolas a small smile as if to reassure him. But Legolas was not convinced.

"My Lord Aragorn," Éomer spoke up hesitantly, and it was obvious he too was shocked by Aragorn's appearance. "It is nearly time to ride again. The king awaits you on the green."

Aragorn simply nodded, and as he walked by, Legolas, Gimli and Éomer fell into step behind him. The group came out from the gate to find that Merry and the king were already mounted, and a great number of green-caped Rohirrim had gathered around them. The smaller group of Rangers stood off to the side, clad in dark grey cloaks with their hoods drawn up over their heads.

Aragorn walked to the king and the others followed him, and as the man spoke with Théoden Legolas listened intently. "I am troubled in mind, lord," Aragorn told the king quietly. "I have heard strange words, and I now see new perils far off. I have labored long in thought, and now I fear I must change my purpose. Tell me, Théoden, you ride now to Dunharrow, how long will it be before you come there?"

Legolas stepped closer at the question, eager to know how long it would be before they could start toward Minas Tirith.

"It is now a full hour past noon," Éomer said. "Before the night of the third day from now we should come to the Hold. The moon will then be one night past its full, and the muster that the king commanded will be held the day after. If the strength of Rohan is to be gathered we cannot make more speed."

Legolas frowned at the estimate and Aragorn remained silent for a moment.

"Three days," the man murmured at last, "and the muster of Rohan will only be begun. But now I see that it cannot be hastened." He looked up to the king, having finally made some decision. "Then, by your leave, lord, I must take new counsel for myself and my kindred. We must ride our own road, and no longer in secret. For me the time of stealth has passed. I will ride by the swiftest way, and I will take the Paths of the Dead."

Legolas was not the only one surprised by Aragorn's statement. Éomer turned to stare at the man, and the Riders near to him turned pale.

"The Paths of the Dead!" cried Théoden, and Legolas saw the man tremble at the words. "Why do you speak of them? If there be truth in such paths, their gate is in Dunharrow… but no living man may pass it."

"Aragorn, my friend," Éomer spoke up sadly, "I had hoped we would ride to war together… but if you seek the Paths of the Dead, then our parting has come, and it is unlikely we will ever meet again."

Aragorn's face remained hard, unconvinced by the terror of those around him. "That road I will take nonetheless," he said evenly. "Though I would say to you, Éomer, that we may indeed meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor stand between us."

Legolas glanced to Aragorn curiously at the statement. He sounded so confident… the Elf wondered what the man had seen in the depths of that Seeing Stone.

"You will do as you will, my lord Aragorn," the king said at last. "It is your doom, maybe, to take such strange paths that others dare not. This parting grieves me, and my strength is lessened by it. But I must take the mountain roads, and delay no longer!" He gave a nod to Aragorn and the man's companions. "Farewell!"

"Farewell, lord," Aragorn returned. "Ride unto great renown!" Théoden managed a small smile and started off, and Aragorn went to where Merry sat on his pony. "Farewell, Merry," the man said softly. "I leave you in good hands, better than we had hoped when we hunted the Orcs to Fangorn." He smiled briefly at the memory of finding the Hobbits, safe and comfortable in Treebeard's care. "Legolas and Gimli will still hunt with me, I hope," he continued, "but we shall not forget you."

"Aye, little Hobbit!" Gimli burst out. "We most certainly shall not forget you!"

Merry looked at all three of them in turn, his face drawn and worried. Legolas stepped forward, trying to give the Hobbit an encouraging look. "We shall meet again, Merry," he said reassuringly. "Have no doubt about that."

Merry lifted his eyes to the Elf's face and his lips twitched in the barest of smiles. He swallowed hard, nodding. "Goodbye," he said weakly, and then none of them could think of anything else to say.

Théoden said something to Éomer, and then the king lifted his hand and cried aloud, and the Riders went forth. Aragorn and the others mounted and rode to the Dike, watching the king's men until they were far down in the Coomb, and then at last the Riders passed back into the hills and disappeared from view.

"There go three that I love," Aragorn said once the Rohirrim had vanished among the foothills. "And the smallest not the least. He knows not to what end he rides, and yet if he knew he would still go on."

"A little people, but of great worth are the Shirefolk," Halbarad said. "Little do they know of our long labor for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not."

"And now our fates are woven together," Aragorn mused absently. "Yet here we must part." He shook his head. "Well, I must eat a little, and then we must also hasten away. Come, Legolas and Gimli. I must speak with you as I eat."

The three went together back into the Burg, and Aragorn ate while the others waited for him to speak. But for a long while he remained silent, until at last Legolas' restlessness demanded they stop wasting time.

"Come," Legolas spoke into the silence, "speak and be comforted, and shake off the shadow! What has happened since we came back to this grim place in the grey morning?"

Gimli also turned eagerly to Aragorn, anxious for some answers, and the man sighed deeply. "A struggle somewhat grimmer than the battle of the Hornburg, for my part," he answered. "I have looked in the Stone of Orthanc, my friends."

Legolas had already known this, but Gimli sat up straighter in his chair, his face an expression of astonishment. "You looked into that accursed stone of wizardry?" the Dwarf exclaimed. "Did you say anything to… _him_? Even Gandalf feared that encounter!"

"You forget to whom you speak," Aragorn said, his eyes flashing. "Did I not openly proclaim my title in Edoras? What do you fear that I would say to him? No, Gimli," he said more softly, and the harshness left his face, leaving behind only a heavy weariness. "No, my friends, I am the lawful master of the Stone, and I had both the right and the strength to use it, or so I judged. The right cannot be doubted. The strength was enough… barely."

Legolas leaned forward on the table as Aragorn drew in a deep breath.

"It was a bitter struggle, and the weariness is slow to pass. I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the Stone to my own will. That alone he will find hard to endure. And he saw me." Aragorn nodded at Gimli's widened eyes. "Yes, Master Gimli, he saw me, but in other guise than you see me here. If that will aid him, then I have done ill. But I do not think so. To know that I lived and walked the earth was a blow to his heart, I deem, for he did not know it until now. The eyes in Orthanc did not see through the armor of Theoden, but Sauron has not forgotten Isildur and the sword of Isildur. And now in the very hour of his great plans the heir of Isildur and the Sword are revealed to him, for I showed him the blade reforged. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear. No… doubt ever gnaws at him."

"But he wields great dominion nonetheless," Gimli said, "and now he will strike more swiftly."

"The hasty stroke often goes astray," Aragorn countered. "We must press our Enemy, and no longer wait upon him for the first move. See my friends, when I had mastered the Stone I learned many things. A grave peril I saw coming unlooked for upon Gondor from the South that will draw off great strength from the defense of Minas Tirith. If it is not countered swiftly, I believe the City will be lost before ten days are gone."

Legolas stared at Aragorn, sitting back slowly in his chair as he processed this new information. Ten days… that was sooner than he had guessed even in his worst fears.

"Then lost it must be," Gimli said heavily, echoing Legolas' own bleak conclusion. "For what help is there to send, and how could it come there in time?"

"I have no help to send," Aragorn admitted. "Therefore I must go myself. But there is only one way through the mountains that will bring me to the coastlands before all is lost, and that is the Paths of the Dead."

"The Paths of the Dead?" asked Gimli. "It is a fell name, and little to the liking of the Men of Rohan, as I saw. Can the living use such a road and not perish? And even if you pass that way, what can so few do to counter the strokes of Mordor?"

"The living have never used that road since the coming of the Rohirrim," Aragorn said in a low voice, "for it is closed to them. But in this dark hour the heir of Isildur may use it, if he dare. Listen… the sons of Elrond bring word to me from their father in Rivendell, wisest in lore: _Bid Aragorn remember the words of the seer, and the Paths of the Dead_."

Legolas frowned. "And what may be the words of the seer?" he asked.

Aragorn leaned forward on his elbows, glancing first at Legolas and then to Gimli and back again. "Thus spoke Melbeth the Seer, in the days of Arvedui, the last king at Fornost:

'_Over the land there lies a long shadow,_

_westward__ reaching wings of darkness._

_The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings_

_doom__ approaches. The Dead awaken;_

_for__ the hour is come for the oathbreakers:_

_at__ the Stone of Erech they shall stand again_

_and__ hear there a horn in the hills ringing._

_Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them_

_From the grey twilight, the forgotten people?___

_The heir of him to whom the oath they swore._

_From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:_

_he__ shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead_.'"

For a moment there was silence after Aragorn's words.

"Dark ways, doubtless," Gimli spoke up slowly, "but no darker than these staves are to me."

"If you would care to understand them better, then I bid you come with me," Aragorn said, "for that way I will now take. But I do not go gladly; only need drives me. Therefore, I would not ask you to accompany me unless it is of your own free choice, for you will find both toil and great fear there, and maybe worse."

Gimli drew himself up in his chair. "I will go with you even on the Paths of the Dead, and to whatever end they may lead."

"I will also come," Legolas put in immediately, "for I do not fear the Dead."

Aragorn dipped his head appreciatively at his two companions, and shortly thereafter they went down once more to the green, where there waited the hooded Rangers, still and silent. Aragorn mounted Roheryn his horse, and Gimli and Legolas climbed upon Arod, leaving Steadyfoot to rest in the stables of Helm's Deep.

Then Halbarad lifted his horn and blew a great blast that echoed against the walls of the fortress, and with that the Grey Company charged down the Coomb like thunder, leaving all that were left on the Burg staring after them in amazement.

Laimea stood within the fifth ring of Minas Tirith, looking out over the wall into the east. The sun was in the west, slowly sinking through the Gap of Rohan and sending out a last flare of light to battle the growing gloom of Mordor. The Anduin now was dark and grey, shadowed by the coming dusk, and the chief highway that had earlier been choked with wagons now stood empty. All those who were to be moved south to safety were gone, and the City had grown deathly silent.

Laimea looked down to the Pelennor below her, to the farmsteads and fields that had been abandoned. She and Anya would have to move into the City by tomorrow, and she was not looking forward to leaving the house and the orchard behind.

A stiff breeze blew in from the east, riffling Laimea's unbraided hair and making the white flags of the Citadel flap against their posts. Far away she heard a captain shouting orders to his regiment and somewhere behind her marched the uniform sound of patrolling soldiers. All was ready for war… now they just waited for the Enemy to strike.

Laimea turned her gaze back to Mordor, wondering what kind of evil Sauron could be hiding behind his Black Gate. She could not even guess his plan, other than to know he would not rest until the kingdom of Men was utterly defeated. She looked down to the lower levels of the City and shook her head. There were too few left to defend Gondor now… and if Gondor fell, who would the rest of Men look to? What hope could they have then?

_Aragorn.___

Laimea bit her lip and her eyes unconsciously turned westward, looking past the bulk of the White Mountains into the direction of Isengard and Helm's Deep. Aragorn was out there somewhere… and so was Legolas. _Please let him come_, she prayed. _Please let him come with an army behind him!_

The beacons had been lit the night before, and the soldiers on the walls constantly watched the horizon for the arrival of aid. But there had been hardly an answer to Minas Tirith's cry for help. Laimea guessed most of Gondor's allies were too busy trying to fight off the evil that already infested their lands. They had no spare soldiers to send to the White City.

She had heard that Gandalf had arrived last night as well, but though she had searched the City for him, Laimea had been unable to locate the wizard. Doubtless he was busy holding council with Lord Denethor, but Laimea wished very much that she could talk to him. He would be able to give her some answers… or so she hoped. And she wanted desperately to know if he had any news of Aragorn or Legolas. She would have to wait until his other business was done. Then she would track him down and speak with him… she had to. She _had_ to know if Aragorn would return… if Legolas would come back…

"You should have taken the way south, my lady," a voice suddenly said, and Laimea turned sharply to see Baranor, the very rider who had given her false message to Legolas, standing near to her.

Laimea managed to give him a tight smile, noticing the normally lightly dressed errand rider had now donned a full suit of armor. She supposed that was best; likely there would be little riding for them to do now. She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Baranor," she said firmly, "you have known me for years… you should know better. I would not leave this City in its time of need."

The man frowned at her, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. In the cool breeze his shoulder-length hair blew across his face, and Laimea was shocked at the level of concern she saw in his grim expression. "My sons also wished to stay and fight," he said. "But they are still too young. They heeded my wishes, and went south with their mother." He sighed heavily. "I will not lie to you, Laimea. I fear this battle and how it will end. I would hate to see you suffer when you could have gone to safety long ago."

Laimea shook her head, knowing his worry was misplaced. "If this battle goes ill, Baranor, there will be no place of safety anywhere in Middle-Earth." She raised her eyes to meet his, and he watched her for a long moment, as if realizing for the first time the truth in her words.

At last he exhaled a quiet breath, dropping his eyes to the stones beneath their feet. "But you will remain in the Healing House, at least, will you not?" he asked, bringing his eyes up again to judge her reaction to his words. "Please promise me you will do nothing foolish?" He had ridden out with her often enough to know that if she ever made up her mind on something, it was nearly impossible to get her to change it, even if she knew her choice was the wrong one.

Laimea looked out to the Great River again, if only so that Baranor could not see the fire in her eyes. "I will stay in the Healing House," she said reluctantly. "I am a fighter, and you know it… but I will stay and help where I am needed most."

Baranor breathed a sigh of relief, and Laimea glanced over at him to see him smiling. He put the helmet back on his head and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Then my heart is gladdened," he said. "And I for one shall not let the filth of Mordor reach you."

Despite herself Laimea smiled. Baranor had always been the one to look out for her among the riders, and though she often resented his attentions, at times they were endearing. "I do not want to see you brought in to the Healing House, Baranor," she warned him, and he nodded gravely at her.

"Then I hope I do not see you again until this war has been won," he replied bravely. He took his hand from her shoulder and bowed to her, and she returned the gesture.

"Be safe, Laimea," he said.

"Fight well, Baranor," she said, and with that he turned and was gone around the curve of the street. Laimea turned back to the east, letting out a deep breath. Baranor had been a friend of hers ever since the day he had become a Rider of Gondor, twenty two years ago. He had never questioned her skills, even though she was a woman, and Laimea had always respected him for that. She hated to lie to him, but it would be easier if no one knew her true intentions until it was too late for them to stop her.

All day she had spent trying to convince one captain after another that she should be allowed to fight alongside them, and yet despite all of her negotiating, begging, demanding, and threatening, none would give in to her.

At last she had relinquished the hope of openly fighting with the soldiers. She would have to do it in secret, and by the time they found out she wasn't in the Healing House, the heat of battle would be upon them, and none would have time to concern themselves with her. Whether it was the right thing to do or not, Laimea knew she could not waste her fighting skills in the Healing House when every last soldier was needed for the defense of the City.

Her hands balled into fists. She would not sit idly by and watch the Orcs pillage and burn the City she called home; she would not stand helplessly and see those she loved slain. Orcs had killed her mother and ultimately caused the departure of her father, and she had never forgotten it. It was the reason she had become an errand rider in the first place. They had caused her much grief, and she wanted nothing more than to repay the favor.

No, she would not stay in the Healing House for this battle, and Laimea determined there was none alive who could make her do otherwise.

Horns in the distance jolted Laimea from her thoughts and she looked southwards in surprise. Cheering rolled up on the wind from below and Laimea shielded her eyes with her hand, peering hard in the direction of the Great Gates. Dust arose from some ways off and Laimea felt a thrill go through her. Help had arrived! She made her way quickly through the streets down to the first circle, hearing the trumpet blast just as she reached the Gate.

"Forlong! Forlong!" the people were shouting, and Laimea knew then it was the Lord of Lassarnach that had arrived, bringing what little of his strength he could spare. She went quickly out of the City to stand with the crowd along the road that led through the townlands, eagerly awaiting more reinforcements from Gondor's surrounding lands.

As the sun sank slowly in the sky more arrived: three hundred men from the Ringló Vale; five hundred bowmen from the uplands of Morthond, the great Blackroot Vale; a long line of sorted men from Anfalas, the Langstrand far away; a few grim men from Lamedon; some hundred of the Fisher-folk of the Ethir; three hundred men with Hirluin the Fair of the Green Hills from Pinnath Gelin; and then at last came Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, with a company of knights in full armor and seven hundred men at arms, singing as they came.

Laimea stared after the Prince, but the grey-eyed, dark-haired people of Dol Amroth passed, and there were no more. It was less than three thousand men all together, and Laimea knew no more would come. She moved slowly back inside the Gate, grateful for the aid that had come, but knowing it was not enough. And still the most looked-for had not come; the men of Rohan… and Aragorn and Legolas with them.

She turned to look behind her as the trumpet sounded for the closing of the Gate. She saw the road stretching out before her, the townlands beyond hazy in the dust-clouded air. The sun slipped at last behind the horizon, alighting the sky in a last blaze of fire. Laimea turned her back on the sight as the Gate slowly creaked shut and closed with a thump behind her. She made her way along the street with the rest of the crowd, but she could not shake the feeling of doom that suddenly closed around her.


	11. The Paths of the Dead

**A/N:** I decided not to post Chapter 11 and 12 at the same time because I wasn't sure how long it would take me to write Chapter 12… and I figured since I had 11 done I should just go ahead and post it! I have noticed many readers are divided on the issue of using dialogue from the book. Some people find it repetitive and boring while others find it quite enjoyable. I do agree that last chapter was a bit of book-dialogue overload, but that was because I needed all of those scenes in this story. This chapter still contains a FEW sentences of dialogue from the book, and once again, I do not claim those words as my own, but I think those of you who dislike the book dialogue will hardly notice it in this chapter. I must admit it seems a lot more of my readers have read the books than I had originally thought, so that's good to know. I don't want people to be lost! Also, I am going to take most of the final battle from the books, with only a few pieces from the movies. This means that Faramir and his company did not ride to their deaths in Osgiliath. When they rode out, Osgiliath had not yet been taken by the Orcs. Also I must give many thanks to my betas Nimrodel and MooKitty! Nimrodel for her reassurances about this chapter and MooKitty for FINALLY helping me straighten out "lie" vs "lay"! AND I must say thank you very much to Cormak, who translated Legolas' song into Sindarian! Thanks again to all of you!

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**Chapter Eleven: The Paths of the Dead**

The shadowy bulks of ancient stones lined the dark pathway to the Dimholt, and as the Grey Company passed under a grove of black and twisted trees Legolas felt the unease of the Rangers around him strengthen. They had been traveling since the first light of dawn, and though the Elf knew that somewhere the sun was rising, it did not reach the place where they walked. The Haunted Mountain loomed above them, blocking the light and creating a formidable and seemingly impenetrable wall before them.

As they continued into the darkness Legolas felt Gimli cringe against his back. The Elf smiled, knowing the Dwarf felt fear of this place just as the Men did. But though he was tempted to poke fun at the Dwarf who claimed for fear nothing, he chose to remain silent, unwilling to cause a disturbance while things were so quiet.

And it was very quiet. There were no birds here, no living creatures that Legolas' sharp eyes and ears could detect. The sound of the horses' breathing and the clink of armor and swords seemed all too loud in the silence, and the men constantly looked around at their surroundings, as if expecting an attack at any moment.

But Legolas was not afraid of the dark or the dead. The ghosts of Men did not frighten him. He guided Arod calmly beneath the reaching branches of the trees and was glad for the haste of Aragorn.

They had passed quickly over the plains after leaving Helm's Deep, reaching Edoras the next day in the afternoon. But they had paused there only briefly, and so found themselves and Dunharrow before darkness fell. Lady Èowyn had been there to greet them, for she had left Helm's Deep days before to prepare the camp for the king's arrival. But they had not stayed there long either; just long enough to eat the evening meal and sleep there for the night.

Legolas sobered at the thought of their departure from Dunharrow. Èowyn had approached them just as they were leaving and requested to ride with them. Aragorn had denied her request of course, but she had made quite a fight of it. Legolas knew Aragorn had only denied Èowyn's passionate plea out of mind for her safety. The Elf would have done the same for Laimea.

As they had left her behind in the dawn Legolas had looked back only once, and he saw her standing still as a statue, her fists clenched helplessly at her sides as she watched them go. Despite her light garments and golden hair, at that moment the lady Èowyn had reminded him acutely of Laimea. It was the way she stood; so stubborn, so defiant.

Legolas had quickly turned away from her at the realization and had not looked back again. He needed no more reminders of Laimea. She already haunted his thoughts more than she should, more than he should allow her to. They were going to Minas Tirith now… he would see her soon enough. He only hoped he did not find her still in the City. He did not want to see her until the battle was over with, when she returned with the women and children who had gone south.

Legolas blinked, pushing all thoughts of Laimea from his mind, and focused his attention instead on the trees that shadowed the Company. They were not the kind of trees he would spend his time among, if given the choice. Even the trees of Fangorn, though gnarled and twisted, had life in them. But these trees… they were lifeless, cheerless; heralds of death. Even he as a Wood Elf could not find comfort in their presence. This was one forest he would not mind leaving.

"My blood runs chill," Gimli whispered suddenly, and if anyone but Legolas heard him they made no reply.

They continued on into the gloom, until at last they came to a grove of the dead trees that encircled a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing sat a large stone like a fat finger pointing to the sky. The Company gathered there, and then they hesitated, for on the other side of the clearing was the door into the mountain.

Legolas squinted at it as he pulled Arod to a halt. It was small and square; roughly hewn from the rock. Above the entrance some ancient inscription had been painted, though now its age had rendered it unreadable.

Aragorn approached the door first, though Roheryn his horse would not go past the jutting stone. Aragorn prodded him, but still the animal refused to move, balking and laying his ears back. At last the man dismounted, and taking the horse by the reins the man stroked his nose briefly, then led him forward.

Cautiously Roheryn stepped past the stone, following his master out of love, though his eyes were wide and his ears flicked nervously in all directions. The rest of the Company followed Aragorn, also dismounting to lead their horses onward. Before the doorway Aragorn lit a torch he'd brought from Dunharrow, and then with a final look to those around him he ducked through and vanished from sight.

Legolas and Gimli slipped off of Arod's back and Legolas placed a hand on the horse's gray neck, coaxing the animal forward. The Rangers ahead of them passed through the door in single file, disappearing into the inky blackness beyond. But Arod refused to enter, bracing himself against Legolas' nudging. The horse's nostrils flared and he trembled in fear.

At last Legolas moved to Arod's head and covered his eyes with his hands, and then softly and gently, he sang a soothing song:

"_Arod mellon, beren roch  
Ú-'oe i dúath,  
an em innas ceni calad na i veth.  
Ú-'oe hen fennas,  
ha dan a dûr pâd an a anavorn men.  
Tegi lîn beren bellas, mellon nîn,  
Em innas garo baur o hen ir i veth tili,  
An em nora an dagor o beleg aglar…_"

Arod seemed to relax at the words, and Gimli watched in amazement as Legolas led the horse calmly past the stone and through the door of the Dimholt.

But the Dwarf himself hesitated. His instincts told him to run away from that blackened doorway… or least not to go into it. Death lay behind there… he was certain of it. This whole place reeked of death, and he couldn't see how the others could just walk into the mountain so casually. Now he understood why the Rohan had looked at Aragorn in such horror when the man had mentioned he was taking the Paths of the Dead.

Gimli glanced over his shoulder, scowling at the sight of the remaining Company. Only the two twin Elves were left behind him, and the dark-haired brothers smiled at him knowingly when they saw his glance. Gimli turned back to the front, taking a leaden step forward before halting again.

He could not go in there… "This is a thing unheard of," he mumbled to himself. "An Elf would go underground and a Dwarf dare not!" He swallowed hard, realizing the longer he waited the farther ahead of him the others would be. Unless they were already dead…

Gimli shoved the thoughts from his mind violently. This was ridiculous. Surely there could not be anything worse under this mountain than what they had already faced in their perilous journey from Rivendell…

There was a brush of robes against his shoulder and Gimli realized the Elven brothers had passed him by and now approached the door. One lit another torch from Dunharrow, and as Gimli stared at them, the other ducked nimbly through the doorway. The brother that was left looked to the Dwarf in question, his gray eyes sparkling as if amused.

But Gimli was not in the least bit amused. He blustered in anger for a moment, knowing the Elf was laughing at him, but then the last brother turned away from the Dwarf and stepped through the opening.

The Elf and the light of the torch were lost in the darkness, and Gimli was all alone. He gathered himself, refusing to be a source of amusement for any Elf, and without farther thought the Dwarf plunged through the door into the mountain.

Laimea bolted upright, a harsh cry escaping her lips as she awakened from some terrible dream. She blinked hard, struggling to remember where she was as she glanced fearfully around the room. She startled as the door opened, but it was only Anya.

The woman ran to Laimea's bedside. "What is it?" the woman asked anxiously, taking in Laimea's sweat soaked sheets with troubled eyes. "What's wrong, child? I heard you yelling…"

Laimea shook her head, closing her eyes and forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. Her heart still raced madly in her chest, but she could not remember what had caused her so much fear. She swallowed hard, opening her eyes at last and staring down at her tangled blankets.

"A dream," she whispered breathlessly, still trying to recall something, anything, that she had seen in her sleep.

"A nightmare is more like it," Anya said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and grasping one of Laimea's hands in her own. "Are you all right?"

Laimea squeezed Anya's hand and nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure? You haven't been sleeping well lately. Not since…" Anya trailed off, unwilling to have that discussion again, and Laimea raised her eyes sharply to regard the woman. Anya did not continue, but her look was stern, and Laimea knew what the woman was thinking. _Not since I've been waiting for Legolas to come back_, she finished Anya's thought. She sighed heavily.

"Is it the same dream you've had before?" Anya asked.

Laimea frowned, thinking hard. She only remembered the feelings the nightmare had given her… darkness, cold, death. The other dream was always about her father, and had never been so dark. She shivered. "No. It was different."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Laimea looked up into Anya's dark eyes. The elderly woman regarded her expectantly, and Laimea realized the woman was truly concerned. Laimea smiled softly, shaking her head. "No. I'd rather not think about it anymore."

Anya nodded in understanding. "All right. But if you change your mind… I will be right outside your room."

Laimea nodded, finally beginning to relax again.

Anya reached over to smooth Laimea's hair, smiling lovingly even though her eyes still bore a great sadness. "Try to go back to sleep," the woman whispered. "You have not had enough rest these past few days."

Laimea nodded again, feeling very tired. Anya released Laimea's hand and stood from the bed, and then with one last glance over her shoulder the woman left the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Laimea sighed heavily, lying back down and pulling the blankets up under her chin. It was only the afternoon, yet the sunlight outside had been drowned by the gloom of Mordor. She and Anya had just finished settling in to their City home in the fourth circle when Laimea had been suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She had thought a nap would be a good idea, but she had been plagued with nightmares.

"Engwarkaimela," she whispered, remembering Legolas' word for them; remembering the night she had woken him from his own ill dreams. He had dreamt of his friends' deaths… he had dreamt of her. What was her nightmare?

Laimea rolled over in bed, refusing to think about it anymore. She needed to rest, and thinking about evil things wouldn't help her forget about them. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind.

She began to drift off to sleep again, and then the nightmare came rushing back to her in all its ugly horror. Laimea gasped, tearing herself away from the images, jolting back to consciousness.

"_Legolas_!" she screamed.

Legolas stiffened, his steady footsteps faltering as the faint echo of a familiar voice called his name. He frowned, searching the darkness around him in confusion. It had sounded like Laimea… no, it _was_ Laimea… but how was that possible? She certainly could not be here…? He glanced to the men in front of him, then tapped one on the shoulder.

"Yes, my Lord?" the man asked in surprise, turning to look back at the Elf.

"Did you hear anything?" Legolas asked quietly. "Just now, did you hear a woman calling?"

The man blinked rapidly at the question. "Well… no, my Lord. I heard nothing of the sort. But this is an evil place, and the Dead are devious and play many cruel tricks on the living."

Legolas thought on the words. "I am an Elf," he replied lowly. "I am not subject to the tricks of the ghosts of Men."

"Of course," the Man said. "Then perhaps your ears have heard sounds that mind cannot?

Legolas' brows drew down to hood his eyes. "Perhaps," he agreed softly.

The man turned back to the front and Legolas remained alert for another sound of Laimea's voice. But he heard nothing more of it, and the further they walked into the mountain the more doubtful he became of ever having heard it in the first place. Still, it was not like him to hear things that were not there. The whole occurrence deeply disturbed him and Legolas tried to shake off the eerie feeling that crept coldly into his being. He would have to think more on this strange event later; the Paths of the Dead were not the place to let down your guard…

The Grey Company walked on into the gloom; their progress marked only by the quiet shuffling footsteps of the Men and steady clip clop of the horses' hooves against the rock. The hoof beats echoed in the wide tunnel and Legolas thought the sound far too loud and piercing for this deathly silent place. But he walked on, following the Men in front of him, his booted feet themselves making no noise.

Aragorn remained in the lead, holding one torch to light the way, and Elladan with the second torch brought up the rear. The Company went single file, no man daring to step out of line for fear they would be swallowed up by the utter darkness that pressed down upon them.

Legolas had drawn his bow, though he did not know what good it could do against the Dead, and he held it close to his chest now as he strained to look at their surroundings. But to try and see past the glow of the torches was useless. Even with his keen Elven sight Legolas could see nothing. No vague glimmer, no hint of movement. Yet he knew they were not alone… he could _feel_ them. He could sense the Dead, hovering all around them, watching the Company's slow progress like carrion-eaters watching their dying prey.

The Elf swallowed, turning his eyes back to the Men in front of him. Aragorn's head was brightly lit, but the Men behind him were merely shadows, shifting uneasily in the flickering light of the flame, their frightened eyes casting about in all directions, a silver cloak brooch occasionally reflecting a spark of light into the darkness.

Though Legolas himself did not fear the Dead, their presence was suffocating. The fear now wafting from the Men around him nearly choked Legolas, for it was a deep and primal horror, something the Elf had never sensed before. It made him uneasy and anxious. He could not understand what kept these Men from running blindly away. Many of them he knew kept their fear under control only by the greatest strength of will. Legolas had no doubt lesser Men than the Dúnedain would never have been able to withstand such oppressing dread.

His gaze fell upon Aragorn again. Aragorn did not fear this place, and Legolas tried to ease his own discomfort by that fact. Aragorn's own determination kept the other Men together, the Elf realized suddenly. The Ranger's strength supported the others; it was because of him they went on, because of him they faced the complete terror they felt, because of him their steps never wavered.

The barest of smiles hinted at Legolas' lips. The Man would be king yet.

The Company came at last to a large cavern, and there Aragorn stopped as the light of his torch caught a gleam to their left. The Man approached it cautiously as the others watched in mixed curiosity and dread. Legolas moved forward to see better, though he was hesitant to come too close.

"Does he feel no fear?" Legolas heard Gimli mutter. "In any other cave Gimli Gloin's son would be the first to run to the gleam of gold. But not here! Let it lie!"

Legolas lifted one eyebrow at the Dwarf's half-whispered words, finding it interesting that for once, at that moment, he felt inclined to completely agree with his bearded companion.

But Aragorn went forward anyway, handing his torch to Elladan, who had come to stand near him. The dark-haired Elf held the light above the object while Aragorn knelt to look at it.

Legolas frowned at the sight the torches' light revealed. A finely clad skeleton lay sprawled face down, its fingers still grasping at the rock wall before it, a broken sword resting abandoned at its side. The helm that still sat upon the bony skull shone with gold, and the gilded suit of mail winked like many tiny jewels in the gloom.

"Baldor," someone whispered breathlessly, and at once Legolas knew they were right. It was indeed Baldor, the once-prince of Rohan who had long ago dared to travel the Paths of the Dead. Things had obviously gone ill for him, and he had never again set foot outside the mountain.

"Indeed," Gimli murmured. "And let his end not be ours. Let us linger here no longer!"

Legolas glanced to Aragorn, but if the man had heard the Dwarf's plea he did not show it.

Aragorn did not touch the remains, but after studying it for a moment he stood and sighed heavily. "Here shall the flowers of _simbelmyn_ never grow," he said quietly. "Nine mounds and seven there are now green with grass, and through all the long years he has lain at the door he could not unlock."

Legolas stepped forward at the words, peering at the rock wall the bony fingers had clawed at to their last. Dimly in the torchlight he could now make out the cracks in the wall. It was indeed a door, but if it had ever been opened, it was now shut fast, and Legolas doubted there were any alive who could open it again.

Whispers began to amount in the dark around them, echoes of voices that spoke a strange and unknown language. Legolas looked around nervously, fingering his bow. He reached for an arrow, drawing it cautiously from his quiver, but he did not fit it to twine yet. He felt the Dead close in around them, and for the first time since entering the Dimholt Legolas wondered if they would make it out of the mountain alive.

"Where does it lead?" Aragorn wondered out loud. "Why would he pass? None shall ever know."

"For that is not my errand!" Aragorn cried suddenly, turning to face the invisible foe around them. "Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!"

The whispers died away abruptly, and then there was only silence; complete and utter silence that rang in Legolas' ears. The Men shifted uneasily, but Aragorn stood resolutely, challenging the Dead with his glare.

A sound came like wind whistling through a tunnel way, and then a chill blast of air hit them, snuffing out the torches and plunging the Company into deep blackness. Legolas readied his arrow, though his blindness offered him little hope of hitting anything.

Elladan and Aragorn attempted to rekindle the torches, but it was in vain. They would have to make the rest of the journey without any light. Legolas kept his arrow ready, attuning his ears sharply to the sounds around them. He heard Aragorn feel his way to the front of the line again, and Elladan moved back to the rear.

The Men each put a hand on the others' shoulders, so that none would get lost, and then Aragorn led them on into the dark, and their path remained unhindered.

Time unmeasured passed, and though they met no resistance, Legolas kept his arrow tightly strung; his ears listening both for sounds of the Dead and for sounds of his friend Gimli. Gimli went slower than the others, falling behind even Elladan, and Legolas did not want to lose the Dwarf to the terrifying gloom that followed them. The Elf could not move from his place to go back and encourage his friend, but he never stopped listening to be sure the Dwarf kept moving.

At last light could be seen ahead, and the Men were not the only ones who felt relief. The Company passed from beneath the mountain and Legolas looked down to Gimli as the Dwarf finally caught up to him.

Gimli's face was pale behind his beard and Legolas gave the Dwarf a grave nod, admiring his stamina. Gimli had been the most afraid, and yet his stout heart and inner courage had not let him give in to that fear. Legolas found himself thankful for Gimli's fiery nature that day, and silently the two of them once again mounted Arod. The Men climbed aboard their own horses, and the small group moved on into the twilight.

Though the gloom of the Haunted Mountain was now behind them, the presence of the Dead did not diminish. Legolas looked over his shoulder once, and by the glitter in his eyes Gimli knew what the Elf saw. The Dwarf turned stiffly to look behind them also, but his eyes only found the Elf-brother Elladan riding after them.

"The Dead are following," Legolas whispered into the quiet, his eyes looking past Elladan. "I see shapes of Men and horses, and pale banners like shreds of cloud, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night…. The Dead are following."

"Yes, the Dead ride behind," Elladan said simply, as if it were expected. "They have been summoned."

Gimli felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the words and he faced the front again quickly, not daring to look behind again for the rest of their journey.

But Legolas watched the Dead long into the night, until Aragorn called for their pace to quicken, and the Grey Company galloped swiftly across the Morthond Vale.

Laimea sprang out of bed, throwing her blankets aside and nearly crashing to the floor in her haste to get to the bedroom door. She groped for the handle, and finding it she yanked the door open only to be confronted with Anya's worried features.

"Laimea?" the woman asked in confusion, but the girl swept passed her, flinging open the door of the house to look out upon the streets of Minas Tirith.

Anya followed Laimea, but Laimea took no notice of her foster mother's presence. She stepped out into the road, walking only a short distance before she swerved off to sit heavily on a nearby stone bench, covering her face in her hands to try and block the images from her nightmare.

"Laimea?" Anya asked again, her voice strained with a near panic. "What's wrong?"

But Laimea only shook her head, gulping in deep breaths of the outside air to try and calm herself. "Nothing," she whispered. "Nothing… just the nightmare… just the-"

A sudden shrieking scream pierced the air and both Anya and Laimea ducked instinctively, throwing their hands over their ears.

Laimea felt a deep despair spear through her at the sound, but as it faded her senses returned to her, and she stood from the bench, looking around wildly for the source of the unearthly cry.

A regiment of soldiers ran by them, shouting something, but as they passed Anya turned to Laimea, her eyes wide. "Fell beasts," the woman whispered. "They have come!"

Laimea did not wait for Anya to say more. She ran after the soldiers, following them east to the wall and shoving her way between the armored bodies to look down upon the townlands and the surrounding Pelennor. The field lay dim below her, but far away over the Anduin she saw five large winged shapes flying toward the City, driving before them a small group of much smaller black shapes.

Her mouth opened wordlessly as she realized the small shapes were men, some on horses and some on foot, all fleeing wildly from the jaws of the dreaded beasts that circled above them. Another long screech came tearing from the throat of one flying creature and Laimea cringed, feeling her heartbeat quicken in her temples. The soldiers around her stepped back from the wall, looking to the sky nervously as if expecting another beast to come falling down upon them.

Then over the distance a trumpet call rolled up through the clouds, and though faint in the gloom it ended on a high clear note, and all standing at the wall pressed forward again, their hearts gladdened as they recognized the call.

"Faramir!" one soldier cried aloud. "It's the Lord Faramir! It's his call!"

Laimea swallowed hard, her eyes fastened to the lone riding figure in the front of the group. Indeed it was Faramir, leading his small group of men toward the refuge of the City, struggling to keep them together as the terror of the fell beasts drove the horses mad. Faramir himself was thrown, but he got up again, and at last gaining control of his wild horse he sprang into the saddle once more, riding back to the others that had fallen behind.

"Faramir! Faramir!" the soldiers around her cheered, but Laimea chewed her lip in silent worry. The Gate was still far off for them, and even as Faramir turned to offer aid to the men on foot, a flying Nazgúl swept down toward him, its jaws open wide.

"Faramir!" she screamed in warning, but he could not have heard her.

A light shone out suddenly from the north and Laimea turned to look. Another figure rode there, gleaming white and silver, galloping quickly to Faramir and his group of men. A great voice could be heard echoing against the City's lower walls, and a grin broke out across Laimea's face as she realized who the rider was.

"Gandalf!" she cried, jumping up and down in her joy and relief. "Gandalf! Ride, Gandalf, ride!"

"Look! The White Rider!" the others around her shouted, but Laimea paid them no attention. One of the Nazgúl had seen the wizard approaching and turned off toward him.

But Gandalf raised his hand against the beast and a shaft of light speared upwards, catching the creature and its rider in the glare. The creature shrieked and wheeled away, and the remaining four broke off their attacks on the running men. All five of the great winged creatures flew rapidly away into the east, vanishing into the dark shadow above Mordor.

Gandalf and Faramir met each other on the fields and halted there, waiting for the men on foot to catch up. But Laimea could wait no longer. She left the wall abruptly, ignoring the questioning look of Anya, and ran down to the Gate to meet the men.

By the time Gandalf and Faramir passed through the Great Gate a large crowd had gathered around them, and a chorus of cheers and shouts of "Faramir!" and "Mithrandir!" echoed through the first circle of the City. Laimea fought her way through the throng, but she was unable to get close enough to speak to either of the men.

She followed them anyway, drifting along with the rest of the mob, hoping that at some point she would be able to talk to them, or at least to one of them. Gandalf could tell her news of Aragorn and Legolas, but Faramir could tell her tidings of war, and she still had not gotten the chance to ask _him_ if she could ride with his company in battle. Faramir might give her a chance.

The two men made their way slowly through the City until they came to the tunnel that led to the seventh circle and the Citadel. There they dismounted and grooms led their horses away quickly. Laimea jostled her way to the front of the crowd, but before she could call out to them another voice interrupted, the strange accent standing out from the rest of the clamor.

"Faramir! Faramir!"

Both Laimea and the Lord Faramir turned to look at the owner of the voice and Faramir looked surprised as his eyes landed on the Hobbit. He was not the only one shocked by the sight. Laimea stared blankly at the Halfling, her mind racing. She had heard nothing about the arrival of a Hobbit in the City, and what was more; this Hobbit wore the uniform of a Citadel Guard!

"Whence did you come?" Faramir asked, speaking aloud Laimea's confused thoughts. "A Halfling, and in the livery of the Tower! Where…?"

But at that moment Gandalf stepped over to the Hobbit's side, and Laimea saw the graveness in the wizard's face. "He came with me from the land of the Halflings," Gandalf answered shortly. "He came with me. But let us not tarry here. There is much to say and do, and you are weary. He shall come with us. Indeed he must, for if he does not forget his new duties more easily than I do, he must attend on his lord again within this hour. Come, Pippin, follow us!"

And with that Gandalf swept the Hobbit along with one white-cloaked arm, and Faramir still clad in his battle worn green jerkin went tiredly after them. But just as Gandalf was about to pass into the tunnel he looked over his shoulder and met Laimea's searching eyes. He seemed to read her questions in her expression, for he gave her a long, hard look, and then nodded once before turning back to the front and disappearing where she could not follow.

Laimea looked after them for a long time, feeling frustration gnaw at her insides. The rest of the crowd began to thin and go back to their homes or their posts, but Laimea remained outside the tunnel. She was not going to leave until she talked to someone, whether it be Gandalf or Faramir. She needed answers to the questions that burned in her mind.

Where was Aragorn? Would he return? Would Theoden's Riders come to Gondor's aid? Did Legolas still travel with Aragorn, and would he come to the City? Who was the Hobbit? Did he have anything to do with Frodo and Sam? What was his place with Gandalf and the others? How had he come to be in the service of the Steward?

Laimea shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temples.

_Pippin_. That was the Hobbit's name. Why did that sound so familiar?

_Pippin!_ Laimea raised her head as she remembered where she'd heard it before. Legolas had mentioned Merry and Pippin once on their journey through the White Mountains. She had asked about them then, but Legolas had only told her it was a long story. She could imagine it was, but now she wanted to hear it, all of it, if only to help make sense of this confusion.

Perhaps if Gandalf and Faramir could not find time to talk to her she could track down Pippin and speak to him instead. Any kind of information would tide her over for now. She just needed to know _something_.

Laimea sighed heavily, raising her eyes to the height of the Tower rising above her. It did not glimmer now, for all the sun's light was hidden behind dark clouds. In the dimness of the afternoon the white stone resembled the look of bone rather than marble, and Laimea turned away from it abruptly. She went to the inner wall and settled herself on a bench there, contenting herself to wait as long as was necessary for one of the three men to emerge from the tunnel.

Night had fallen and Laimea had drifted off into a light doze by the time footsteps sounded in the tunnel way again. She startled awake at the noise and blinked hard, struggling to clear the fog of weariness from her mind. Laimea stood from the hard bench, stretching stiffly, and watched the approaching torchlight eagerly.

The night was very dark; no moon or stars could be seen, but by the height of the flame above the ground Laimea knew the Halfling and Gandalf emerged.

The wizard's white robes were pale in the blackness, his face softly lit in the glow of the torch. He saw her waiting there as he stepped from the tunnel and fixed her with a stern gaze.

"Have you really been waiting there all this time?" he asked.

Laimea nodded. "Gandalf… I need to talk to you," she blurted, unable to contain herself any longer.

The wizard grunted, nodding slowly. He looked down to Pippin and then up to Laimea, sighing heavily. "If I am not plagued by the curiosity of a Hobbit I am plagued by the curiosity of a girl," he mumbled.

"But I must know about Ara-"

"Shh!" Gandalf commanded her, waving his arm as if to physically cut off her words. "Do not speak of such things here! You never know what ears are listening. Come with me, and then we will talk."

Laimea stared at him as he brushed by her, and Pippin hurried along on his short legs to keep up with the wizard's brisk pace. Laimea was left with no other choice than to follow them.

Gandalf led her to the place where he and Pippin resided, and only after he had shut and latched the door behind them did the wizard turn to regard her. Pippin lit the lamp on the table and extinguished the torch, and then the Hobbit settled himself in a nearby chair, watching her expectantly as if he were the one answering her questions.

"Pippin." She nodded to him, finally acknowledging his presence.

He smiled at her, jumping out of the chair at once to take her hand and bow like a proper gentleman. "At your service, my Lady. Though I'm afraid I do not know your name…?"

"This is Laimea," Gandalf answered for her. "She is an errand rider of Gondor, and brought a message to King Thèoden of Rohan from the Steward to Helm's Deep. That is where she became acquainted with your companions Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. But I'm afraid you and Merry were away with Treebeard at the time, Pippin."

The Hobbit looked up to Laimea with wide, innocent eyes, and she couldn't help but smile down at him. He held her hand with both of his own now. "But you have heard of me?" he asked her.

Laimea nodded. "Yes. Legolas spoke of you once."

"Really? What did he say about me?"

"There is no time for such talk, Peregrin Took," Gandalf scolded. "Perhaps later in a time of peace the Lady Laimea can tell you such tales, but not now. Let her speak her mind, and then she must go." He turned his attention to Laimea. "I am sorry to be short with you, my girl, but there are grave matters I must attend to. You understand…?"

Laimea nodded again wordlessly, shocked at the worry and fear she read behind the wizard's calm blue eyes. She had never seen him this way before, not in all the years she had known him, and it made her all the more nervous for what was to come. She swallowed hard, trying to gather her thoughts, and then as Pippin released her hand and moved back to his chair she spoke.

"I… I just wanted to know if you had news of Aragorn? He told me once it was not yet his time to enter the White City, but if he does not come soon there will be no City left for him to enter."

Gandalf lifted one bushy grey eyebrow. "Indeed," the wizard muttered. "You might be more right than you know, my dear girl."

Laimea blinked at such an answer, but Gandalf shook his head, waving away her horrified expression.

"Aragorn's time draws near," he assured her. "He is strong and stern underneath; able to take his own counsel and dare great risks at need. He will come, Laimea, have no doubt about that. The question is when. He will come with the Riders of Rohan, and they could not have left any sooner than two days ago. It is many leagues between Rohan and Gondor..."

Laimea felt her heart flutter in her chest. "The Riders will come?" she asked breathlessly.

Gandalf nodded, leaning on his staff. "The Steward has sent out the Red Arrow to his allies in the west, and by now Théoden would have received it. They will come. But will they get here in time? That is a question even I do not know the answer to."

Laimea put her hands on the table, bracing herself for her next question. "And Legolas?" she asked, her voice choked with a failed effort to appear indifferent. "Will he… will he come as well?"

Gandalf straightened from his staff, his lips forming a tight line. He was silent for a brief moment and Laimea's heart dropped into her stomach.

"Yes," the wizard finally answered, although somewhat reluctantly, "the Elf will come. He will follow Aragorn."

A breath of relief escaped Laimea's lips unexpectedly and she cleared her throat, turning away from Gandalf to pace to the other side of the room. "And Gimli too?" she asked casually, trying to cover up her inadvertent show of feelings toward Legolas.

"Yes," Gandalf answered, but Laimea could tell by his tone that he was not fooled. "They will all come," the wizard said slowly, "but the hour of their arrival is still unknown. They may come too late. It is impossible to tell."

Laimea nodded, unable to speak. She fought down the fierce hope raging through her, taking deep breaths to try and calm her pounding heart. She staggered to a chair and sat down heavily, staring blankly across the room.

"And what about Frodo and Sam?" Pippin asked into the silence. "Is there any hope for them?"

Laimea's keen gaze joined with Pippin's to regard Gandalf in his answer.

"There never was much hope," Gandalf said heavily. "Just a fool's hope, as I have been told." He shook his white-haired head. "And when I heard of Cirith Ungol –" he broke off, his eyes coming to rest on Laimea.

She frowned. "Where?"

But Gandalf shook his head again, ushering her toward the door. "Nothing. Nothing you should concern yourself with. No, that is business your ears should not hear."

Laimea turned around to face him as he nearly pushed her out into the street. "Gandalf!" she protested, disliking the idea of being left out of conversation.

But the wizard blocked the doorway, fixing her dark eyes with his own. "I have answered your questions," he said seriously, "and now I will only say this: Be wary of the part you choose to play in this coming battle, Laimea. Your father's foresight may have seen you as a soldier of war, but he could not see everything."

Laimea stared at Gandalf, her mind going numb at the words, and she found herself speechless for the second time that night.

"Now get some rest while you may," Gandalf said quietly, and then he shut the door on her, and she heard it latch from the inside.

_Rest?_ She thought dumbly. How could he expect her to rest after giving her such a riddle? _Your father's foresight may have seen you as a soldier of war, but he could not see everything. _What did that mean? Laimea clenched her fists at her side, whirling away from Gandalf's door angrily.

She stalked down the now lamp-lit street toward the house she and Anya had claimed as their own, wishing they were still in the townlands so she could seek the darkness of the orchard for comfort. But she could not go there anymore; no one could leave the City now unless on official business. Still, Laimea knew she would not be able to sleep if she went to her bed, and she did not feel like talking to Anya about where she had been.

She passed up her lodging and went to the Healing House instead, walking through the small garden of healing herbs and soothing plants to come to the wall. A single leafy tree shaded the garden, but in the darkness of night it was only a phantom shadow, vague at the edge of her vision as she looked to the southwest. But she could see nothing from the wall. The fields and hills below her were hidden in the darkness, and Laimea's eyes looked out on an endless sea of night.

Sighing, she went to the tree and sat down at its base. So they would come. The Riders of Rohan, Aragorn, Gimli… Legolas. They would all come. The thought should have made her happy, but Gandalf's last words to her had all but extinguished her previous excitement. She thought they sounded like a warning. A warning not to fight.

Laimea hissed a breath of irritation through her teeth. She was tired of people telling her what she couldn't do. She understood they were worried for her safety, but wives worried for their husbands' safety during war, and the men still went out to fight. It was a risk they chose to take. Laimea shook her head. Perhaps her father couldn't see everything, but Gandalf couldn't either. The wizard had admitted to that fact more than once. His warning was no more right than her father's foresight.

She rubbed her eyes at the thought. Foresight. That's how her father had known she would one day ride out to battle. He had seen it… and she would do it. Laimea stood from her seat resolutely, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. The City needed every soldier it could afford. She had to fight. They had to hold off Sauron's forces long enough to give Aragorn and the Riders of Rohan time to get here. Long enough for Legolas to get here…

Laimea's stomach churned at the thought of seeing him again. She wondered if he would even speak to her. She swallowed hard, wiping such thoughts from her mind, and set off for her lodging once again.

This was not the time to worry about the Elf. That would come later… now she had to try and convince Faramir to let her ride with him. She had no doubt the Captain would be up and about early tomorrow, readying for some duty the Steward had appointed to him. She had to find him before he left. Faramir was her only hope. Faramir _had_ to let her ride with him…

"No, my lady, I cannot allow that."

Laimea gritted her teeth, barely biting back the sharp words that flew to her tongue as she watched Faramir saddle his horse. They stood just outside the stables of Minas Tirith, and Faramir's small group of men waited around him on nervously shifting horses. Most of the men gathered here were the same men who had barely outrun the jaws of the fell beasts the day before, and all of them looked weary and ill at ease.

Laimea cast her eyes about the group, then stepped close to Faramir as he tightened his saddle's girth. "You need all the fighters you can get," she said lowly into his ear. "You know I can fight… you could use me."

Faramir looked up from his saddle, his face hard and his blue eyes glittering. "You are an _errand rider_, Laimea, not a soldier."

She stood her ground, meeting his eyes with a cutting glare of her own. "I have seen my share of battle," she answered him. "Many an Orc have I slain in the mountains, on the fields…"

"Yes," Faramir hissed, "but this is no mindless Orc rabble, girl! This is an entire _host_! An entire _legion_! Organized and led by the most ruthless of Sauron's lieutenants…. This is a _war_. You have no experience in this kind of fighting. You would do me no good."

He turned away from her and retrieved his bridle, slipping it quickly over his horse's head. He readied himself to mount up, but Laimea would not be dismissed so easily. She caught his sleeve before he could lift himself up.

"My Lord," she tried again, "I can wield a sword as good as any man. And I can ride better than many. Look at your Company! A few is all you have! I know you go back to Osgiliath, and if it is as dangerous as you say then you have even more need of me!"

Faramir took his foot out of the stirrup and turned to face her. "Your confidence in your own skills borders on arrogance, my lady," he said flatly. "But you would be killed in the first charge. Then what good would your skills be to this City? You would serve much greater purpose in the Healing House, and you very well know this."

Laimea felt tears sting her eyes but she blinked them back hastily. She glanced around to the other men but they would not meet her gaze. _Damn them_, she thought. None of them understood… "Your men are afraid," she whispered heatedly, "and yet you take them with you. I do not fear death and you deny me the right to fight!"

Faramir caught her arm suddenly, pushing her back into the barn door forcibly. Laimea swallowed her cry of surprise and stared up at him wide-eyed, shocked at the strength of his grip. He glared fiercely into her eyes, his usually gentle face dark with anger.

"My men are afraid because they know what it is they are going out to meet!" he told her vehemently through his teeth. "If you had any sense in that head of yours you would be afraid too! War is not a thing to be taken lightly, Laimea, and death in battle does not always bring about renown." He released her arm. "My men do not go about carelessly throwing their lives away as you would do. And I would never ask them to. I would not ask that of you, either. You cannot ride with me. And do not ask again."

He looked at her a moment longer, as if waiting for her to challenge him again, but it was all Laimea could do to hold back the tears that mercilessly bit into the backs of her eyes.

She swallowed hard, watching him move back to his horse and mount up. He reined his animal around, turning to face her, and then gave a deep nod in farewell.

She did not move from her position against the barn door. Faramir raised one hand in the air, gesturing forward, and then he and his small Company rode out from the stables, making their way toward the Great Gate below. None of the men looked back, and Laimea was left alone in the dawnless morning.

She listened to the hoof beats fading away, feeling a warm tear slide down her cheek. She sank slowly to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. She felt so useless, so helpless, so alone…. The morning's silence engulfed her and Laimea covered her face with her hands as she felt the tears break free.

Legolas' Song to Arod Translation:

_Noble friend, bold horse_

_Fear not the darkness_

_For we will see light at the end.___

_Fear not this doorway,_

_It (is) but a dark way to a faster road._

_Bring your bold strength, my friend,_

_We will have need of you when the end comes._

_For we ride to battle of great glory_.

Originally I wasn't going to give the translation, but then I thought, why not! Thanks again to Cormak for translating it for me!


	12. The Sortie of Gondor

Author's Note: I must say THANK YOU a million times to MooKitty, my beta, who has undoubtedly made this story TONS better with the suggestions she made for this chapter! bows Without you Laimea would be ever so much more cliché, and I thank you for catching me before I fell into that trap! ;) I also want to take this time to thank all of my lovely READERS! You guys are all so patient, and I hope the new chapters will never disappoint you! And, in case some of you haven't read the books, a sortie can also be defined as a raid, foray, or maneuver, if that helps you any. ;) Hope you enjoy this chapter! (PS: Apparently the stars and diamonds no longer work, so I have divided the chapter's scenes by using a rather ugly line!)

**Chapter Twelve: The Sortie of Gondor**

Laimea paced restlessly between the narrow rows of beds in the Healing House, biting her lip in prolonged worry and frustration. Anya and the few other healers busied themselves preparing for the arrival of the wounded, trying to ignore the girl's frenzied movements.

But Laimea had not been able to sit still since she'd watched Faramir ride away without her two days ago. On that very night a messenger had come in from the fords, bringing word to the anxious City-dwellers that a great host had marched out from Minas Morgul and now approached Osgiliath. The darkness that had fallen over Minas Tirith did not lift, and the next day was as dark as the day before, bringing more ill news with it. The Enemy had gained passage of the Anduin, sailing across in hordes upon large floats and barges. But what had crushed Laimea's hope of Faramir's victory was the news of the Black Captain, who led the Enemy's forces.

Few men would stand against this foe, Laimea knew. Even the mention of his coming would send most soldiers running wildly for their life, their training forgotten and their weapons forsaken. If Faramir himself could muster the courage to face the Black Captain, he would most likely do it alone, and he would stand little chance of survival.

Laimea had heard that Gandalf had ridden out to offer what help he could to those men still holding out at Osgiliath and it was this knowledge that offered Laimea her only reassurance. Surely with Gandalf there beside them the men would be able to maintain their sanity in the presence of the Black Captain. Perhaps Gandalf would even find a way to dispatch of the dark lieutenant. If there was anyone Laimea thought had a chance of defeating that horrifying creature, it was the wizard.

She startled as the morning bells rang through the City, announcing the arrival of day, although by the looks of the sky Laimea doubted the sun would ever again shine upon Gondor. She went to one glassless window of the Healing House and looked out upon the empty streets. The strange gloom had crept into the City, leaking into the spaces between the buildings and giving the usually shining City a dingy and forsaken appearance. Laimea sighed heavily, deciding the outdoors was entirely too depressing to look at, and went back to her pacing.

She had to find a way to ride out. But there was no one left for her to ask. And she doubted the guards at the Gate would let her out of the City unless she had the permission of some higher up. Still, Laimea refused to give up. She would find a way... eventually...

Distant shouts of the watchmen caught her attention and Laimea went quickly to the door, leaving the other healers behind her without a word. They watched her as she left the building, and Anya shook her head hopelessly as the door shut after her.

Laimea trotted toward the wall, hearing more shouts from the watchmen. A low rumble sounded through the heavy air and she quickened her pace. She reached the eastern wall just in time to see a flash of fire in the distance along the walls of the Pelennor. Another noise like thunder followed shortly after the burst of flame and her mouth fell open as she realized what was happening.

"At arms! At arms!" a soldier shouted frantically from the wall below her. "Stand at arms! They are blasting the wall! They are coming through!"

Laimea backed away at the words, seeing a third red flash light up the darkness over the fields. She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling light-headed. They were coming. At last the long awaited attack had come, and the Enemy had seemingly spared nothing in his offense. Already there was word of thousands of Orcs marching on Minas Tirith, and their ranks were strengthened by legions of the tall and cruel Haradrim from the south. The Witch King of Angmar led them all, driving the dark soldiers before him in fear and hate. And still Laimea had no doubt the approaching army was not all the Enemy had in store for the men of Gondor.

She ran back to the Healing House to warn the others, and for the next hour or two concentrated on helping to ready the beds and healing herbs. They finished just in time, for all at once the door swung open, and Laimea was utterly shocked to see Gandalf in the doorway. The wizard had a disheveled look about him and his blue eyes darted around the interior of the Healing House before coming to a stop on Laimea. He nodded to her, and then stepped back from the door, making room for the soldiers that followed him.

She noticed then the wagons in the street outside, all full of wounded men. Her worried eyes went to Gandalf again and he explained as he helped one severely limping man to a nearby bed.

"All that could be saved from the Causeway Forts," he said gravely. "I fear the battle there goes ill. I must speak to Denethor at once." He set the hurt man down carefully on the mattress. "See to these men. They all fought bravely."

Before Laimea could say a word to him the wizard left, ducking out through the constantly incoming wounded and springing up onto the back of Shadowfax. Then he rode away in a hurry, the clatter of the great horse's hooves on the stone fading rapidly into the darkness.

Laimea watched him go, then tried to focus her attention on the many hurt men that had now come to occupy almost every bed in the Healing House. She looked around the room in despair, knowing the war had only just begun, knowing there would be so many more injured and dying arriving in the days to come. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and then went to attend to the most serious looking injuries. But always she kept one eye on the window, watching for any kind of movement outside.

If anyone else went out, or if the Orcs came in, she would be ready.

* * *

Evening drew near. The scarce light of day faded into a dusky twilight. Lamps on the street shone vainly against the dark and the torches in the Healing House were kindled hastily. The beds had all been occupied now, and makeshift ones had been spread about the floor in a haphazard manner. Steadily throughout the day wounded and weary men had been coming in, and while some of them required very little treatment, there were several that Laimea doubted would live through the night.

Seeing them suffer only strengthened her resolve to fight. She often walked to the window, growing more restless by the hour. The far away sounds of blasting had ceased long ago, and Laimea knew the army could now only be moving closer to the City.

Finally she heard distant voices, one being unmistakably Gandalf's, and Laimea leapt to the window to peer out once more. She could see nothing in the growing night, but that did not matter. They were out there, somewhere. She wiped her bloodied hands on the apron around her waist and then hurriedly untied it, tossing it to the floor.

"I shall return," she told Anya shortly, and then she ran from the Healing House to find the voices.

She found her way to them at last, but drew up short as she recognized the Lord Denethor walking with the wizard. She ducked behind the corner of a nearby building to hide herself, wondering what urgent matter had drawn the Steward from his Tower. She listened curiously to their discussion as they walked side by side down the street.

"The sortie must consist of mounted men," Gandalf was saying, "for in one thing only is the enemy lacking, and that is in horsemen."

"Yes," the Lord Denethor agreed slowly, "but we have few mounted men left ourselves. Most have already ridden out and expended themselves. Now would the arrival of the Rohirrim be in the nick of time."

"Indeed," Gandalf agreed solemnly. "But it is too late to rely upon their arrival now. You must rally your own defense."

The Steward did not reply, and as the silence stretched on Laimea glanced around the corner to see where they had gone. She caught a glimpse of Gandalf's white robes and a brush of Denethor's dark cloak, and then the two men vanished into the shadows.

Laimea sank against the building's wall, thinking quickly. Lord Denethor's sortie would offer protection for the retreating men of the Forts and be a last attempt to drive back the Enemy from the Pelennor. All the remaining horsemen in the City would be called, and they would ride out soon.

She bit her lip, glancing back down the street toward the Healing House. She had told Anya she would return... but she had not told the woman exactly when. Likely the healers would become suspicious of her absence if she rode out now, and perhaps someone might even come looking for her, but by that time she would already be outside the City walls.

Laimea turned to look again in the direction Gandalf and the Lord Denethor had disappeared. The enemy already marched toward the City; the Rohirrim, if they came at all, would come too late. All the lands about Minas Tirith had now been overtaken, and the White City stood alone like a rock amid a dark sea. Soon the waves of the Enemy's army would come crashing in upon the walls, and then it would only be a matter of time before the last stronghold of Gondor fell.

This sortie would be the last charge. Laimea knew that now without a doubt. After this there would be no more riding out, no more fighting upon the fields. After this the people remaining in Minas Tirith would rely on the seven walls encircling them for protection, and any fighting to be done would be done within the narrow streets.

She would have no opportunity then to fight, for at the soonest hint of danger the healers and the injured would be moved up into the seventh circle. They would be closely guarded, and she would have no way to slip out unnoticed.

No, if she wanted to fight she had to go now. This was her chance. This was her only chance.

Her mind made up, Laimea sprinted back toward her house to retrieve her armor. She had little time.

* * *

A short while later Laimea stood near the stables, hidden in the short alley between two unoccupied lodgings. She crouched there, clad in her Elvish armor, missing only the fauld; which she had abandoned in favor of riding horseback. The men of the sortie were now nearly all mounted, and Laimea shook her head at their numbers. A hundred at most, she estimated, not even enough to make a dent in the Enemy's offense. But at least it was something.

She could not see Gandalf among the men, but she knew he was there somewhere. She would have to wait until the men rode out and then follow behind them discreetly. Her slender golden frame would be sorely obvious within a group of broad shouldered, silver armored men, and Laimea did not want to be spotted until they were already past the City Gate.

At last the men were ready, and forming three long orderly lines they rode down toward the Gate at an easy trot. As soon as the last man had passed off beyond her sight Laimea headed for the barn, barging through the doors so forcefully that they rebounded off the walls. She caught them before they hit her, striding down the dusty center aisle to where a very impatient Morsul kicked at his stall door. He didn't like being left behind any more than she did.

"Yes," she said out loud, "we're riding out." She retrieved his saddle, knowing full well her limited bareback skills would be useless while the horse was in the midst of battle, and led him from the stall. He pranced in place, throwing his head and whinnying for the others who had gone before him. Laimea tied him to a post and swiftly threw the blanket and saddle upon his back, cinching the girth with experienced hands. She tried to ignore the fact that her fingers trembled and her heartbeat pounded fiercely through her head. _This is what I wanted_, Laimea told herself firmly, _to do my part, to fight_.

She reached for her bridle but had to fight with Morsul for a moment before he would accept the bit. He had ridden for too long without it, she thought. But at last he allowed her to put it on his head, and proudly he bore the silver crest of Gondor on his forehead. She grabbed her little-used shield from the tack shelf and slipped its straps over her left forearm. It was a light shield, round in shape and decidedly of Gondor fashion, bearing the white tree and seven stars on its surface.

Laimea untied Morsul and swung aboard the restless stallion, adjusting her sword on her hip once she was in the saddle. She double-checked to be sure Galadriel's knife had been securely tucked into her waistline sash and then tugged the helmet down more snugly on her head. She smiled wryly, imagining the sight she must have made. Morsul wore Gondorian tack, and she wore Elvish armor. It was a decidedly outlandish combination, but one that echoed Laimea's own background with an ironic similarity.

She took a deep breath, trying to drive out the flutters that danced in the pit of her stomach. She faced the open barn doors, looking out into the foggy dusk where others of the sortie had vanished only minutes ago. She squared her shoulders, hefted her shield, gripped the reins, and gave Morsul his head.

The black stallion leapt forward, his heavy hooves pounding the stone street beneath him as he raced for the Gate. Laimea passed the watchmen swiftly, and for ever afterwards the men on the walls that night swore they saw the ghost of a lost king; riding a wraith of a horse and clad in armor that shone as bright as the sun in the torchlight, and after him flowed a cloak like blood.

Laimea approached the Great Gate just as it closed, and she cursed vehemently as Morsul slid to a halt on the cobbles, stopping his momentum just before crashing into the iron plated surface. She pulled him around to face the four guards, who all stood staring up at her with open mouths.

"Open the Gate!" she ordered harshly, unwilling to believe she had missed her only chance. "Open the Gate! Quickly!"

"My- my lady?" the nearest one stammered, removing his helmet and squinting at her as if to be sure he wasn't seeing things. "Where did you...? You... are... a part of the sortie?" he asked hesitantly, clearly doubting this even as he said it.

Laimea nodded. "Yes, now open the Gate! You are wasting time!" Morsul chomped the bit and pawed the ground anxiously; Laimea had to fight to keep him still.

The guard looked to the other three, who shifted uncertainly. "My lady..." the closest one started again, but Laimea's patience snapped. She was too close to be stopped now. She yanked her sword from its sheath and pointed it toward the nearby guard, who took a startled step backwards.

"I grow weary of waiting," Laimea snarled through her teeth. "Open the Gate _now_."

The guard visibly swallowed, looking to his fellows once more, and Laimea did not notice the others had gripped their sword hilts. Her glare burned into the guard she faced and her sword point did not waver from its place near his neck. A long moment of tense silence stretched into the night.

"What is this madness?" a voice cried suddenly, and Laimea spun around to see Gandalf approaching on Shadowfax.

She stared at the wizard in shock for a split second before hastily turning Morsul around to face him. The burning aggravation in her chest faltered as a crushing wave of disappointment hit her. Gandalf wasn't supposed to be here... he was supposed to be outside, with the others...

"I thought you might not listen to me," Gandalf scolded as he came to a stop in front of her, "just as you did not listen to anyone else. But I did not expect to see you drawing your weapon against your own people!"

Laimea felt fierce anger spring up within her, making her flush, and she raised her sword shoulder high. "I am riding out, Gandalf," she said, her voice nearly a growl, "and I will not let anyone stop me. Not them, not you."

The wizard lifted one eyebrow at the claim.

"She is not a part of the sortie then?" a guard asked tentatively.

Gandalf spoke toward the man but did not take his eyes off of Laimea. "No, she is not."

Laimea clenched her jaw, and Morsul, sensing the tension in the air, pranced nervously beneath her.

Gandalf inhaled and exhaled deeply. "She is with me," he stated bluntly.

Laimea straightened in the saddle, her sword lowering. Her angry glare turned into one of confusion and disbelief, but Shadowfax moved past her and the white-haired wizard nodded reassuringly to the four guards.

"She is with me," he repeated. "Open the Gate."

The nearest guard hurriedly placed his helmet back on his head and signaled the others to do as Gandalf said. The four men grabbed a hold of the great iron rings bolted to the Gate and very slowly and laboriously hauled the great doors open just wide enough for the two riders to pass through.

Outside rested a wide and vague plain, lit only by the hellish red glow of fires in the far distance. Laimea followed Gandalf out, all at once feeling triumphant and invincible. She had made it out; she would get to fight. She would defend her City...

"Thank you, Gandalf," she forced out, knowing she owed at least that much to the wizard, for without him she most likely would never have made it past the Gate.

Gandalf grunted dismissively. "I didn't want to risk you doing something you would later regret."

Laimea squinted across to him as they trotted parallel to the outer wall of Minas Tirith's first circle. "What do you mean?"

Gandalf looked at her. "You didn't actually intend to fight those four guards, did you?"

Laimea blinked at the question. "Well... I...." She had of course fully intended to fight the four guards at the Gate if they had refused to let her out, but somehow she didn't feel she should admit that to Gandalf. "Perhaps," she answered finally.

Gandalf shook his head. "I suppose there's no questioning your spirit," he muttered, and then he sighed. "This is the choice you have made then, is it?"

Laimea looked at him. "Yes," she answered gravely. "It is. It has always been my choice."

Gandalf nodded, pursing his lips in thought for a brief moment. "I feared as much. I may have spoken for you back there, Laimea, but I must tell you that I still do not believe this is a good idea."

Laimea faced the front stiffly at the words and did not reply. She did not care what Gandalf thought or what the Captains of the army thought. She knew in her heart she was doing the right thing, and that was all that mattered.

"I see you found your father's armor," Gandalf commented after a short silence.

Laimea swallowed hard at the mention of her father. She did not look at the white-clad wizard as she answered. "I did."

"Does it fit well?"

"It does."

Another short pause, then, "That armor protected your father in many battles. I only hope it can offer you the same protection now. But you must not rely on it to save you, Laimea. Keep your wits about you, my girl. You must survive this fight, do you understand? I will not have your death on my conscience."

Laimea looked at him curiously, but his face was drawn and serious, and so she simply nodded silently, a heavy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to ignore it as they neared the rest of the sortie, who waited anxiously in the shadow of the wall.

Laimea noticed with surprise that Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his company of swan-knights had joined the men of Gondor she had seen at the stable. All of them had formed ranks, but the Prince and his knights were at the head, and as she passed them she couldn't help but stare. She had seen them only once before, when they had first arrived at Minas Tirith, but even then the dust clouding the air had dampened their glory.

Here, although the unending gloom hung about them and the shadow of the City engulfed them, the Prince and his men shone as brightly as stars in the sky. The horses of Gondor pawed and snorted impatiently, but the gray horses of Dol Amroth stood still as statues, and their riders also sat still as stone, their silver armor polished so highly Laimea could see her reflection in the breast plates.

Only their eyes followed Laimea as she rode in front of them, and as she passed the Prince in the middle of the front line he gave her a barely perceptible nod.

Laimea returned his gesture with a nod of her own and took up her place at the end of the second row. Gandalf himself went to the front of the ranks, walking to and fro down the line and surveying the men of the sortie.

"We wait for the trumpet call," Gandalf told them, and then no one spoke.

They waited in silence. Laimea glanced at the others nervously. Nearly all the men, save those of Prince's company, looked at her with unrestrained curiosity. The long braid over her shoulder kept her from passing as a man and Morsul's unmistakable black coat kept her from passing as some other woman. They knew who she was, but likely they had many guesses at why she was out here with them and where she had gotten such unusual armor.

If it had been a less serious situation Laimea had no doubt someone would have already asked her to answer those questions. But as it were no one dared to speak. They had a duty to perform, and they had to be ready.

Laimea tugged on the end of her long leather gloves, then flexed her fingers within them. She rechecked her helmet for the third time and secured her boots in the stirrups. Morsul snorted loudly and chewed his bit.

Still they waited. Laimea turned her attention away from the stares of the men and out to the plains ahead. The fires still burned in the east, and then with dismay she realized the flames crept closer. Houses and barns had been set aflame, and the smoke curled up to thicken the air. Laimea clenched her jaw, hoping her orchard was still safe, hoping the Steward would release the sortie in time to keep the Orcs from reaching her and Anya's house in the townlands.

She grew more anxious as the fires multiplied. Morsul shook his long mane, feeling her restlessness, and shifted uncomfortably. A low nicker escaped him and Laimea reached down to pat his neck reassuringly. "It's all right," she whispered breathlessly. "Your barn is safe. We will not let it burn." _Nor will my orchard burn_, she thought resolutely. That orchard had been her refuge and Anya's pride and joy since they had first come to Gondor. The trees had reached full growth now, and their leaves were broad and dark. They could not burn...

Laimea shielded her eyes with her hand, looking off into the distance. Night had fallen upon them as they waited and in the ever-growing dark she found it very difficult to see very far. She wished briefly that she had the height advantage of the watchmen upon the City walls, but she did not know that they could see scarcely more than she.

She squinted as she thought she saw thin snakes of fire moving hurriedly forward from the larger fires. She stood in her stirrups to try and get a better look, and then she finally understood what she saw. Torches. Torches carried by Orcs, no doubt. The dike was down, and the foul creatures poured through every opening they could find. They came running for Minas Tirith in many small lines, and then came together in one horrid and ordered mass on the wide road that led to the City Gates.

Laimea lowered herself back into the saddle, her mouth going dry. There were hundreds of them... thousands of them. And there were so few in Minas Tirith to counter them. _But the City is strong_, Laimea told herself. _It has many defenses, and its walls will not fall easily. We may hold them back for a while yet._

She gripped her sword haft, waiting to hear the call of the trumpet. But still there remained silence from the wall behind them. She watched the lines of fire grow closer and move more swiftly. The Orcs were getting greedy now. Their plunder was in sight, but they knew not of the hidden calvary that awaited them... Laimea drew Nimrunya from its sheath and held the curved blade at the ready. The men around her agreed with her motion and drew their weapons as well, and the zinging of metal blades pulled bare rang through the night.

And then Laimea saw men approaching, men of Gondor. They came within clear sight when less than a mile away, and she saw that these men were marching and not running like all the others who had come before them. These were the last of the retreat from Osgiliath and the Causeway Forts; the Enemy now had the lands about Minas Tirith in his complete control.

"Faramir," someone whispered. "Faramir must there, for he can govern both man and beast."

They watched the marching lines of men approach, until they were scarcely two furlongs distant from the Gate. Laimea sat up straight in the saddle, watching with rapt attention. A small group of horsemen rode behind the group on foot, all that was left of the rearguard, and as Laimea watched they turned, facing the oncoming lines of fire that marked the approach of the Orcs.

An uproar of fierce cries suddenly erupted from the lines as horsemen of the Enemy came rushing to meet the mounted men of the retreat. The flowing rivers of torches became an unstoppable torrent of Orcs who crashed against the bodies of the horses and then swept swiftly around the sides of the rearguard to attack the men on foot.

Shouts in a harsh language joined the din and Laimea shook her head at the sight of the wild Southron men who came after the Orcs. They were tall and broad and wore armor made of leather and fur, and they screamed violently as they charged into the fray, waving tattered red banners.

The men of Gondor waiting in the sortie shifted uneasily. They looked to each other uncertainly, and Laimea knew what they were thinking. Had the Steward forgotten about them? Why wouldn't he give the order and release them? Should they go now, or wait a little longer?

Laimea watched the Orcs and Southron men overtake the retreat. She felt her body slowly growing numb at the sight of the slaughter, at the sound of the Orcs' cries and the men's screams. A solid lump formed in her throat and she could not swallow it down. She could not breathe... she felt too light, her head too heavy... she wasn't supposed to be here... she was supposed to be inside, where it was safe, where they could not get to her.... The hand that held her sword began to shake.

A piercing cry shocked her from her horror and she cringed down over Morsul's neck involuntarily. The horses of the sortie threw their heads up and snorted at the air, rolling their eyes. They shifted and pranced, pawing the ground nervously.

A Nazgúl dove from the air, stooping for the kill, shattering the night with its scream once more. The men of the retreat panicked. They threw down their weapons and ran madly in all directions, crying out in fear and falling to the ground. The horses waiting in the shadow of the wall reared and fought their riders, and the order of the sortie nearly dissolved.

Then the blast of a trumpet rang out from the Citadel, cutting through the smoke and fire-filled air to bite into the ears of all that fought on the fields of the townlands. Gandalf gave a bellowing cry and immediately leapt forward on Shadowfax, and like a streaking star they tore out for the fight.

Prince Imrahil raised his blue banner, and echoing Gandalf's cry he spurred on his horse, and he and his company of knights galloped swiftly after the wizard, followed by all the men of Gondor.

Laimea watched them go, and Morsul tossed his head and whinnied to be let after them, but she held him back, staring at the quickly disappearing flanks of her sortie. She did not want to go out there...

"Amroth for Gondor!" a strong voice suddenly called above the noise of the battle, and Laimea recognized the unmistakable clear tones of Prince Imrahil. "Amroth to Faramir!" he shouted.

Laimea blinked. Faramir. Faramir was out there, along with all of his men. These were her friends, husbands and sons of Gondor. Faramir had led them out to Osgiliath, but he had not been able to hold off the Enemy, and now while he and his men were so close to safety they had been attacked once more. It was not fair... _They are afraid because they know what it is they go out to meet,_ Faramir had once told her before he left. And yet he had ridden out, and all his men had followed him. And here she was, hiding by the wall in fear after she had claimed to Faramir's face that she did not fear death.

Abrupt shame flooded Laimea and she swallowed in a dry throat. Her grip tightened on her sword and she set her jaw resolutely. Faramir needed her now. Gondor needed her now. She had no right to be afraid...

"To Faramir," she whispered, struggling to gather her courage with the soft words. She straightened her shoulders and looked ahead, raising her sword high in the air. "To Faramir!" she cried, and then she loosed Morsul's reins, and he shot like an arrow from the wall, rushing Laimea after the others.

With the noise of thunder the sortie broke upon the lines of the Enemy, and Morsul plunged into the fray fearlessly, charging through ranks of Orcs as if they were nothing more than blades of grass. But Laimea sat frozen atop the horse's back, her mind unthinking as she looked about the fields, her eyes wildly trying to make sense of things. But it was impossible. The battlefield was a crush of bodies, silver armored Gondorian men crashed against the smaller, darker bodies of the Orcs; the Southrons came through swinging axes and broad-bladed swords, hacking off the limbs of anything that stood in their way. The few horsemen of the Enemy that still survived ran back and forth through the lines of men, slashing out with wicked swords and firing poisoned arrows into the weak spots of armor. The Nazgúl above dove and swooped, causing chaos, until all at once a white light shone out through the darkness, catching Laimea's attention and bringing her confused mind into focus.

She saw Gandalf, the source of the light, riding forth on Shadowfax, his hand outstretched and his blue eyes glaring fiercely up at the fell beasts from beneath his white brows. The Nazgúl screamed and ducked away from the shining light, for the Black Captain had not yet arrived to challenge the wizard. The winged beasts flew away, vanishing again into the darkness, and Gandalf's light disappeared; the wizard veering off to plunge his glittering sword into another knot of foul creatures.

A fierce Southron suddenly leapt in front of Morsul, swinging his broad blade madly, and the great black horse sat back on his haunches to avoid the sword. Laimea grabbed onto her saddle, nearly losing her balance, but Morsul rose into the air, lashing out with his forefeet and shrieking in rage. The Southron did not flinch away from the flying hooves. Instead he challenged the stallion, yelling out in his own harsh language and swinging his sword over his head with a wild whoop.

Laimea scrambled for the reins, her fingers tangled in Morsul's long black mane. The stallion landed on all four feet only briefly before rising up again, pinning his ears flat to his head and baring his teeth in a madness Laimea had never seen before. But the Southron was crazy with hate and the lust for blood, and he dodged beneath the hooves to strike at the vulnerable softness of the horse's belly. Laimea saw the danger coming and finally caught hold of the reins, pulling Morsul's head around to the right and forcing him to come down to all fours again. His chest struck the Southron as he landed and the once fierce soldier of the Enemy gave a cry as the horse trampled him underfoot.

But Laimea did not celebrate her small victory. She pressed her heels to Morsul's sides and he sprang forward immediately, galloping through the battle and out into the clear on the other side. A soldier of the sortie saw her running, and as she swept by him his expression changed from bewilderment to anger.

"Yes, run!" he shouted callously after her. "Run back to where you belong, you foolish girl! Run back to the other women, you coward!"

Laimea heard the words only vaguely through the wind that rushed around her ears, but still she urged Morsul on even faster, until she had once again drawn close to the wall of the City. Only then did she slow him and pull him around to face the battle that still raged on the fields. The stallion snorted loudly and shook his head, pawing the dirt with one bloodied hoof, but Laimea ignored him.

Her wide eyes stared the fight before her, her heart beating furiously in her chest, her breathing short and hard. She felt dizzy, suffocated, and the hand that clutched her sword haft gripped with vice-like terror. The sortie was indeed driving back the army of the Enemy, but not without a heavy cost. Already the bodies of Gondorian soldiers littered the fields and the wide main road. Their lifeless eyes stared up into the black sky above, their faces twisted into frozen expressions of terror or pain. Riderless horses ran wildly away from the battle, neighing in fear and confusion. The stink of burning flesh clouded the air as fires spread across the plain.

Laimea gagged, feeling sick. She dismounted Morsul clumsily, nearly falling to the ground as she landed, and pulled off her helmet quickly, gasping for air. She dropped to her hands and knees and dry wretched, then threw an arm over her nose to try and block the stench. She sat back on her heels, looking out once again to the spread of destruction in front of her. So many dead... the sortie and the foot soldiers had moved farther away now, forcing the retreating Orcs and Southrons to move into the Pelennor.

_Foolish girl... coward!_ She winced at the words, her face stinging in humiliation, but still she could not bring herself to move from the wall. She could only see the faces of the dead, the faces of the men she had known for years, the faces of her friends. Tears came to her eyes unbidden and she tried to blink them away, finally standing on shaking legs. She turned to mount Morsul again when a familiar green jerkin on the field caught her eye.

Laimea faced the front again, squinting in the firelight, and then suddenly she recognized the soldier's features. Horror stabbed through her, followed immediately by numbing disbelief. Her heart dropped into her stomach. She stood for a moment in shock, then took off toward the man on foot, fear fueling her legs. It couldn't be him... he could not have fallen...

She staggered toward the familiar fallen soldier, tears clouding her eyes as she approached him. She fell to her knees beside him, leaving her helmet on the grass as she pulled off her gloves and put one shaking palm to the man's forehead.

"Faramir?" she whispered cautiously, thinking she had seen a flutter of his eyelids.

Laimea did not notice that Morsul had followed her across the field, nor did she notice that the out companies of foot soldiers had reformed their orderly lines behind the safety of the sortie's mounted men. The army of the Enemy for now had been checked, and the Orcs and Southron men were hastily retreating from the boundaries of the Pelennor.

"My Lord?" Laimea tried again, warily eyeing the end of the dart that protruded from Faramir's chest. "My Lord Faramir? Can you hear me?"

The second blast of the trumpet startled Laimea, and she looked up to glance around the battlefield in surprise. That call was to signal the sortie's retreat, and Laimea looked over her shoulder to see a long line of the Gondorian horsemen emerging from the fire smoke like ghosts, walking slowly and proudly in their return to the City. The men of the retreat who were on foot gathered together again on the main road, and they resumed their march for the Great Gates like nothing had ever happened. But their numbers were severely reduced; the many bodies of their comrades covered the fields of the townlands.

Laimea swallowed hard, wishing she could find her voice enough to call out to the others. But she could not get herself to raise her voice, nor could she bring herself to stand. Her eyes went back to the Lord Faramir's face, and she watched him acutely, searching for any sign of life, no matter how remote. She bent over his mouth, feeling for breath. She thought she felt something against her cheek, though faint, but she couldn't be sure.

"Faramir?" she called to him again, unwilling to give up. She pressed her fingertips under the collar of his tunic, begging for there to be a pulse beneath the skin. He was still warm at least... and then she felt it. A heartbeat. Slow and thready, and very weak, but it was there.

A thrill of urgency suddenly gripped Laimea and she stood quickly, waving both hands in the air. "Over here!" she yelled as loudly as she could manage. "Over here! Quickly! The Lord Faramir is injured!"

Two riders spotted her and broke from the lines, galloping in her direction. As they approached Laimea saw with relief it was Gandalf and Prince Imrahil. Both men came to a stop beside her and the Prince swung down from his mount immediately, crouching next to the fallen Faramir.

Laimea watched as the Prince checked for life in the same ways she had. "He's still alive," she assured him in a whisper, feeling as if her throat would collapse upon itself at any second. "But I fear we don't have much time."

The Prince nodded wordlessly and as Gandalf dismounted Shadowfax the Prince moved to Faramir's shoulders. The two men lifted him gently, easing him up onto Imrahil's horse. Then the Prince himself mounted, steadying Faramir's precarious position with the strength of his own arms, and grimly he rode off to rejoin the others.

Gandalf turned to face Laimea, his white robes and face marred with black Orc blood. "How long have you been with him?" the wizard asked shortly, still breathing heavily from his part in the battle.

Laimea shook her head, feeling warm tears slide from the corners of her eyes. "Not long," she choked out. "I did not see him fall. I do not know how long he was lying there."

Gandalf nodded. "You did well, Laimea. It was not your fault."

Laimea stared at him, unable to speak. If she had been better prepared for this battle... if she had not lost her courage at the beginning... if she had kept her wits about her when that Southron had attacked... if she had not hid in fear by the wall... perhaps she would have seen Faramir's danger before it reached him and warned him about it. But it was too late now. At least he was still alive... for now...

The sobs welled up within her without warning and Laimea fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands as the tears ran freely down her cheeks. Gandalf crouched next to her, looking to her with concern and question in his eyes. She shook her head.

"I couldn't do it, Gandalf!" she cried miserably. "I couldn't do it! I - I fled the battle. I hid..." her voice was lost in sobs and Gandalf reached out one blood stained hand to rest comfortingly on her shoulder. She gulped in a breath before speaking again. "I – I was... so afraid," she admitted at last, bringing her tear filled eyes up to look at Gandalf's face. "I'm sorry, Gandalf. I've failed you... I've failed Gondor..."

The wizard shook his head, his blue eyes softening in understanding. "It was never your duty to fight, Laimea," he said quietly. "The battlefield is not your place. No one but yourself expected you to fight. You were not trained to deal with war and death as these men were."

Laimea wiped the tears from her face resolutely, struggling to gain control of herself. "But... but I _can _fight," she insisted. "I could have fought... I could have warned Faramir..."

"Or perhaps you too would have been struck down," Gandalf suggested bluntly. "No one knows what would have happened to you if you had remained in the battle. I for one am thankful you are still alive. And if not for you Lord Faramir might have been left behind on the field to suffer a worse fate than the slow poison of a black dart. At least now there is a chance of saving him."

Laimea looked to Gandalf with hopeful eyes. "Do you truly think the Lord Faramir can be healed?"

Gandalf glanced over his shoulder to where Prince Imrahil and the injured Faramir had disappeared into the ranks of men. The wizard let out a heavy breath, turning back to Laimea at last. "I do not know by what evil he has been infected... but I do know that we shall at least try our best to keep him alive." Gandalf picked up her helmet from the ground and handed it to her. "Come now," he said gently, "we can talk more of this within the City. But we must go now. The Enemy will not be held back for long."

Laimea nodded absently and walked unsteadily to where Morsul waited, his nostrils flaring at the stench in the air. She mounted clumsily and followed Gandalf back to the rest of the men, looking back only once at the battlefield.

The dark of night had only deepened, and now in several places the grass of the plain had caught fire from the downcast torches of the Orcs. The smoke in the air made her eyes burn, and the smell of charred flesh and wood stung her nose. Beyond the line of clear sight the large fires still burned, hiding the paths by which the Orcs and Southrons had escaped.

The grass over a wide area had been trampled flat and gleamed sickly wet with blood. Bodies lay over the great expanse like a carpet, dark and motionless, while here and there a discarded sword or piece of Gondorian armor glittered with the reflection of firelight. Nothing moved out there, and after the noise of the battle the silence of the dead rested heavily on Laimea's shoulders. She turned away from the sight, closing her eyes tightly as fresh tears welled within her. She swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, and forced herself to ask the question that worried her mind.

"Gandalf," she asked in a slightly trembling voice, "what of those who have fallen? What of the dead?"

Gandalf's blue eyes looked to her face briefly, but then he turned his gaze back to the road ahead of them. "There is no time to bring them in," he answered grimly. "There is no time to bury them. They will have to stay where they lie until this war is over with."

Laimea bit her lip at the answer, hating the thought of leaving the bodies out in the open air for the carrion fowl to feed upon. But Gandalf was right. There were so many dead... it would take at least an entire day to get them all within the City walls. And they did not have that kind of time... She brought her eyes back to the City Gates as the massive iron-plated doors began to creak open, refusing to think any more about the death she had just witnessed. Faramir was still alive, and Laimea would see to it that he got the best treatment for whatever sickness ailed him. It was the least she could do for failing him in the heat of battle.

Hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the mounted men followed the foot soldiers into the first circle of the City. A crowd of people greeted their return, and many voices called out with cheers and praise, but there was an underlying tone of anguish beneath the shouts. The people of Gondor were not blind. They could tell almost immediately how many of their soldiers had fallen, and it was a disturbing number. The cheers faltered as Gandalf, Laimea, and Prince Imrahil entered through the Gates, and Laimea saw many of the eyes in the crowd fall upon her in wonder... but then they saw the burden that Prince Imrahil bore, and all the shouts died away, a hush falling like a blanket over the City.

The Prince made his way wordlessly up the street toward the tunnel that led to the second circle, and the crowd parted to let him through. Gandalf and Laimea trailed after the Prince, and the crowd followed after them. Slowly and solemnly Faramir was taken up the winding road to his father, and the sounds of men weeping behind could be heard in the quietness of the night.

At the tunnel to the Citadel Gandalf turned to Laimea and bid her to stay behind. She opened her mouth to protest, but the wizard turned Shadowfax away from her and followed Imrahil through the seventh door and into the white stone courtyard, leaving her alone with the remaining soldiers and the crowd. She shut her mouth as he left and sighed heavily, looking around her at the grave and wearied faces. All eyes focused on her; the City people looked to her as if she could provide some answer or explanation for Faramir, and the soldiers stared at her with a hard and narrowed gaze. She looked away from them, remembering the harsh words of the soldier on the battlefield, and swallowed hard, beginning to excuse her way through the mass of people to head back for the barn.

She had nearly reached the end of the group when a mounted man of the sortie moved his horse into her path. She glanced up to him worriedly to find his piercing glare cutting through into her heart.

"Fancy armor doesn't make a warrior, girl," he growled lowly. "Next time there be a battle, do us all a favor and stay where you belong: _inside_ the City."

Laimea felt tears sting her eyes but she blinked them back, biting her lip and dropping her eyes to her hands to try and hide the fact the remark had stung her. She made no reply, and eventually the man nudged his mount out of the way so that she could pass, although Laimea could still feel his eyes boring into her back.

She urged Morsul into a trot, leaving the crowd behind her quickly, and felt the tears overrun her lashes. She reached the barn shortly and dismounted, leading Morsul forward into the stable interior on clumsy legs. She unsaddled the snorting horse through clouded eyes and gave him a quick brushing, somehow managing through it all to hold back the sobs that clogged her throat. She worked swiftly, wishing only to retreat back to the solitude of her and Anya's lodging. She put the stallion in his stall and filled his manger with hay, then turned to put away the tack on the proper racks. Relieved to be finished, Laimea turned around to exit the barn and stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the man who stood in the doorway.

Huirion. She recognized him immediately. He had been there with Faramir when she had first asked to ride out with the son of the Steward. Laimea swallowed again, blinking away her tears, refusing the urge to lift a hand to wipe away the salty wetness from her cheeks. She stood stiffly for a moment, regarding Huirion cautiously, and then moved to go around him.

He sidestepped to block her path and Laimea lifted her eyes to his face, feeling her anger flare. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? But she held her tongue, meeting his dark eyes evenly as he removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm.

"The Lord Faramir told you not to go out," he said brusquely. "He warned you about war, he told you that you were not ready for it. And yet you rode out anyway."

Laimea narrowed her eyes. "I rode out with Gandalf," she snapped. "I had his permission." She did not mention that it had been her original intention to slip out unnoticed in the crowd without anyone's permission.

Huirion's gaze did not waver. "If Mithrandir was leader of Gondor perhaps his word would mean something," the man snarled. "But the wizard is not the leader of the armies, nor is he even a Captain. He is merely an ally, a counselor, a bringer of news. Faramir told you to stay. You have disrespected him by disobeying."

"I wanted to fight!" Laimea burst out, surprised at the volume of her voice. She found her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her breathing coming hard and fast.

"But you _didn't_ fight," Huirion bit off sharply. "It is one thing for you to be so arrogant as to believe you can adequately perform a man's duty, but it is another thing entirely to blatantly disobey an order in your stubbornness and then abandon the men your very presence mocks when the battle is nigh. You had no right to be on that battlefield, Laimea, and I hope you realize your mistake."

There was a stony silence. Laimea stared at the stray bits of hay that lay scattered over the barn's cobbled center aisle and clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth would break.

"Women are not meant for battle," Huirion continued, his voice hard. "As you have proven even this night. You will stay inside the City walls like the other women who remain. No more of your war hero fantasies."

Laimea lifted her eyes slowly from the floor, bringing their tear-wet depths to regard Huirion with a cold stare. Anger and shame jumbled within her, creating a fierce burn in the center of her chest. Many cruel words surged to her mind, but Laimea resisted them, unwilling to break down again, and with a last, long, painful glare at Huirion, she squeezed past him and left the barn, walking swiftly down the street and vanishing into the darkness.

* * *

A lone candle flickered in the corner of Laimea's bedroom, throwing soft shadows over the smooth gold surface of the Elvish helmet she held in her hands. Nimrunya and Galadriel's dagger lay side by side on the quilt of her bed, their white blades silently shimmering in the dull light. The silence rang in her ears, but she was grateful for it. She just wanted to be alone for a while, to hide in the darkness of this quiet, cool stone house, to stay away from the accusing eyes of the soldiers and the curious stares of the others.

She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the end of her sleeve, and then ran one finger gingerly over the runes engraved on the helmet's nose guard. She wondered what they meant and thought of her father. Why had he left this armor for her? Anya had said he thought she would ride into battle, and Gandalf had confirmed that by telling her of her father's foresight. Her father had long ago seen her fighting... but she had not been able to do it.

Laimea gritted her teeth, lifting the helmet and pressing its cool smoothness to her forehead. _Why?_ she demanded of herself. _Why did you run? You know how to fight, you have seen death before... why did you run?_

Faramir's words came drifting back to her mind. _You are an_ errand rider- _not a soldier...this is not mindless Orc rabble, girl... this is a _war! _You have no experience in this kind of fighting... _Perhaps he was right, she admitted reluctantly. Perhaps Gandalf was right. Perhaps she had not been prepared for the true magnitude of this war. Even now she could recall the gripping panic that had taken control of her at the sight of such slaughter, such turmoil, such evil. She lowered the helmet, staring at it, staring at the runes. She swallowed hard, thinking of her time with Legolas in the White Mountains and the morning they had been attacked by Orcs. Shamefully she realized she had nearly lost her wits even then. The very sight of the charging Uruk-hai and the sounds of their wild shouts had stricken her with a deep, paralyzing terror. If it had not been for Legolas, Laimea knew full well she would not have made it out of the mountains alive. Her fear would have frozen her, and by the time she recovered from it the Orcs would have already been upon her.

_Run back to where you belong, you foolish girl! Coward!_

She shook her head, feeling new tears burn at her eyes. She blinked them over her lashes quickly, wishing suddenly to hurl the helmet out of her sight. But she didn't dare throw it. Instead she set it down roughly on the floor and shoved it under the bed. "I should have left it all in the trunk," Laimea muttered sourly to the empty room. "I never should have opened the cursed thing!"

She stood from the bed, pacing in her irritation. She felt only anger now... anger at herself for being so weak, so foolish, for failing, for humiliating herself in front of the men. Angry at her father for leaving her this armor, for having his false foresight and strengthening her belief that she could indeed fight. Anger at Anya for telling her it was her father's armor and for informing her of his vision in the first place.

"Why did you leave it, father?" she demanded gruffly at the dark walls. "Why did you leave it?" Her eyes fell upon Nimrunya and she picked up the sword hastily, holding it up in the faint light of the single candle and glaring at the shining blade. "Why did you give me _this_?" she shouted into the emptiness, raising the sword so the tip of it nearly struck the ceiling. She shook it as if her father could see it. "Why? It is useless to me!" She tossed it back to the bed angrily, turning in a circle and lifting her face to the rough-hewn ceiling above, her fists clenched at her sides. "It is all _useless_ to me!" she screamed, as if she could make him hear. "You should not have left it! You should not have left any of it! I cannot fight! You were wrong... you were _wrong_, father! I cannot fight and you never should have made me believe I could! Curse you! Curse you and your foresight! _Curse you _for leaving_ me_!"

Laimea caught the sword off the bed at her last words and threw it with all her might at her bedroom door. The tip of the blade buried itself deep within the wood and the haft quivered at the impact. But Laimea took no notice of it. She whirled to her bed and fell upon it, crumpling into a disorganized heap as the sobs within her broke free at last.

* * *

Legolas stood on the bank of the Great River at a narrow section of beach between two great wooden piers. He still held his knives in both hands, his fingers wrapped around the familiar hafts, the white blades of the weapons still slick with dark blood. His face was grim and pale in the dull light of the moon, but he was not looking at the bodies of the Haradrim he had just slain.  
  
Gimli walked up beside him, but even with the crunching of the Dwarf's heavy boots in the gravel the Elf did not turn. The bright blue eyes stared out toward the ocean in the south, searching, seeing far away. The dark water of the river frothed at the rocks just inches from the toes of Legolas' boots, and now that the battle here had finished, the whisper of the water and the creaking of the tied boats were the only sounds in the hollow night.  
  
Gimli looked a long time into the direction where Legolas stared, but the Dwarf could see nothing other than endless water fading away into the darkness of the unknown. He tilted his head to one side, straining his eyes as best he could, but despite his uncanny ability to see well in dark places, he could detect nothing of interest that might demand such rapt attention from the Elf. At last Gimli cleared his throat, trying to make his presence known, and then finally there seemed to be some flicker of life behind Legolas' unwavering gaze.  
  
Gimli took his chance. "Legolas... may I ask what it is you are staring at?"  
  
Legolas turned his head at the question and despite himself Gimli drew back at the look in the Elf's eyes. It was something the Dwarf had never seen before; something ancient, something vivid... something almost like fear.  
  
"The gulls, Gimli," Legolas said raggedly. "Did you not hear the gulls?"  
  
Gimli blinked at the question, not understanding it, but the Elf didn't even give him time to answer. Instead Legolas brushed by him quickly, heading up the beach toward Aragorn, his face more brooding and grave than ever before.  
  
The Dwarf watched him go, a frown passing over his face beneath the beard. He leaned on his bloodied axe and sighed heavily, shaking his head. He supposed he would never understand the Elves.

* * *


	13. Horns of the North

**Author's Note:** Sorry this chapter took so long! School has been crazy! But here it is, and I hope it doesn't disappoint! The song lyrics in this one belong to Fran Walsh. You'll recognize the song of course, but I thought it fit too well with this chapter not to use, and at least now you'll know what it's supposed to sound like! Thanks go especially to my beta MooKitty and to all of you who are still reading this fiction despite the long lags between chapters! I really appreciate your loyalty! And just in case the thought crosses your mind at some point in this chapter: NO, this is not the end. The best is yet to come… or at least, I hope so. Oh, I apologize for the weird spacing of the song, I couldn't get it to work any other way. :S

**Chapter Thirteen: Horns of the North**

Laimea stood at the wall of the fourth circle; facing the southeast and watching the fires burn away at the townlands. Her tired, tear reddened eyes looked blankly upon the destruction below, new tears falling unnoticed from her lashes to trickle down her already wet cheeks. She held the dagger of Galadriel in her hands, turning it over within her fingers absently, and its golden inlay and sparkling gems occasionally lit with orange light as they caught the reflection of the flames on the horizon.

But she did not notice the weapon in her hands, nor did she register the frequent uneasy shuffling of the watchmen along the walls. Her vision filled with the memories of the battle that had been fought just hours before, down on that very field below her where the fires now burned. Hours had passed since she'd first ridden out from the City Gates, and yet it felt as if the action were a hundred years ago, and the memories formed only moments ago. The thunder of hooves, the clash of armor, the shrill clang of meeting swords… the guttural cries of the Southrons, the shrieks of the Orcs, the sickening sound of a sharpened blade plunging into the soft flesh of its victim, axes squealing through bone and mail as they hacked off limbs… the gargling last screams of dying men, the dark red blood that ran in small rivers through the trampled grass, the glassy, staring eyes of the dead…

Laimea shuddered, dropping her eyes to the dagger. The dead… so many dead, and they would never have a proper burial. They were still out there now, all those brave men… soldiers who had gone out to fight in the face of overwhelming odds, soldiers who had given their lives to protect their City. But they would receive no special resting place for their deeds. No, their fate would be to lie upon the open field until the fire consumed them or until the carrion fowl fed upon them.

She shook her head, feeling a small fire of anger light within the deadened center of her heart. _You will not be forgotten_, Laimea told them, lifting her eyes once more to the field below. _We will not forget you. If any of us live to see the end of this war, we will see you honored._

She looked out beyond the fires, squinting in an attempt to see through the heavy smoke that choked the air. There seemed to be some kind of movement far off, but she could not tell any more than that. Yet she did not need to see it to know what it was. It was the army of Orcs, moving in again. The work of the sortie had not lasted long.

But at least some of the men from the retreat had been saved. At least Gondor had put up a fight. At least it had not been a complete massacre…

Her thoughts drifted to Faramir and she bit her lip. She had not dared to venture anywhere else in the City besides her lodging and this wall yet, but so far she had heard no news of the Captain's faring. She desperately wanted to learn of his condition, and yet she couldn't bring herself to go back to the Citadel gate. Not while there was still a chance that soldiers might be waiting there for news as well.

No, it was better to stay here… stay here and hide…

_Coward! Fancy armor does not make a warrior, girl. _Laimea closed her eyes as the harsh words echoed through her head again. She gripped the handle of the dagger so hard the gems dug painfully into her palm. By Eru how she wished they were wrong. How she wished she could have proven them wrong… but she had not. She had failed them, she had failed Gondor, and she had failed herself. She had gone out with the intent of fighting, and yet when it had come time for her to fulfill her duty she had run away from it, abandoning the men who had been counting on her to do her part. She _was_ a coward.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her forehead and then wiping the tears from her cheeks. She released her hold on the dagger, staring down at it and the imprints it had left in her skin. _Why?_ she asked herself. _Why?_ She had been more than scared; she had been absolutely terrified. Faramir had been right when he'd told her that her experiences with Orcs on her errand rides were nothing like the experience of all out war. Even her encounter with the Uruk-hai in the mountains could not compare. But why then, if she was so horrified of true battle, would her father leave her his armor?

_Your father's foresight may have seen you as a soldier of war, but he could not see everything._ Gandalf's words came back to her and Laimea sighed heavily. Indeed her father had not been able to see everything. In fact, he hadn't been able to see _anything_. His foresight had obviously been wrong, and Gandalf had been right. Faramir had been right. They _all_ had been right. She could not fight in this war and she never should have believed she could. She never should have believed some long past vision of her father's was true. He had left her long ago… how could he have possibly known anything about her?

"Laimea!"

She startled at the sound of her name and whirled around to see Anya running toward her. The elderly woman drew up beside her and leaned against the wall, gulping in air to try and catch her breath. Laimea's brows furrowed in concern at the sight of the woman. Anya's normally neatly wrapped bun had come undone, spilling long gray strands of hair around her aged face. Her brow gleamed with sweat and her eyes were wide and worried, and her gown, apron, and hands were stained with blood.

"Where have you been, child?" Anya demanded before Laimea could ask any questions. "I have nearly been worried to death, running around all over this City looking for you!"

Laimea drew back at the inquiry, staring at her foster mother, her mind racing. Had Anya not heard, did she not know? And if Anya didn't know, should she even be told?

But Anya must have seen the look of indecision on Laimea's face, because she said, "I heard about what you did, Laimea. But you cannot blame yourself." The woman's dark eyes looked down to her blood soaked apron. "I encouraged you, and I should not have. I felt misgivings about you riding out, and I should have kept by those feelings. But I knew, in the end, that I could not have stopped you from doing what you thought was right." Her eyes rose again to meet Laimea's. "That's all you did, my child. You did what you thought was right, and no one can blame you for that."

Laimea shook her head, feeling the familiar sting of tears at the backs of her eyes. "No, Anya," she whispered, "I ran away. I didn't fight. I didn't do anything but hide… I'm a coward…"

Anya's hand reached out and caught Laimea's wrist, and Laimea looked up to her foster mother in surprise at the firm grip. The woman's eyes glared fiercely from the old face. "That is nonsense," she snapped. "You are an errand rider, Laimea. Every time you rode out from these City Gates to deliver some message my heart worried for you, because every time you left these walls you rode into danger. Don't you understand that? How many times for how many years have you ridden out under the Steward's command, unthinking about the dangers you might encounter?"

"But that is different," Laimea protested. "That was-"

"It is _not_ different!" Anya interrupted, and Laimea blinked at the force of the woman's words. "The soldiers of Gondor may be trained for war, but in a year how many times are they asked to fight for their lives, for their homeland? Every time you rode out you were being asked to fight, Laimea. You were being asked to fight for your own life and for your country. Perhaps you were not faced with thousands of Orcs at a time, but if you had been killed during any of those missions, the important information you carried would have been lost. Your rides were no less important than the soldiers' roles in this war, Laimea, and the very fact you went out whenever the Steward called makes you not a coward."

Laimea shook her head weakly, but Anya would not give her time to speak.

"Listen to me, Laimea," the woman ordered, and she gripped Laimea's shoulders. "The fact that you even went out there onto that field shows you have more courage than many women of Gondor and even more than some of the men. Do not be ashamed of your fear. To show fear in the face of this Enemy is not disgraceful, no, it is only human. Your only fault upon that field was to doubt yourself, to give in to your fear, and yet you cannot let that undermine the courage of your character. You showed a great strength of will and courage when you rode out with the sortie, Laimea. A strength of will that could not be matched by any of the men you fought with, because while they were expected to ride out and fight, you chose to do it of your own free will. If only you had not begun to doubt… perhaps your will would have held out long enough for you to contribute to the battle. But as it is, there is nothing you can do to change what happened. The fact remains you did what you felt was right, and demonstrated a greater love for this City than I think I have ever seen."

Anya released her hold on Laimea's shoulders and dropped her hands back to her sides, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. The old woman's eyes drifted out over the wall to the burning townlands, and when she spoke her voice was soft and weary. "You have no more time to stand here and mourn, Laimea. The era of Gondor is coming to an end, I fear, and in the meantime there are many wounded and dying who need your help."

Laimea turned away from her foster mother, leaning against the rough stone of the wall. She watched the fires flickering in the dark night and thought of all that Anya had said to her. She thought of King Theoden and the Rohirrim, of Aragorn and Gimli, and of Legolas, and realized with a heavy certainty that they would come too late.

Minas Tirith was alone in this war. She was alone. She could no longer hope for the help of others, because it would not come. Not with the City besieged by the army of Orcs like it was. She glanced down to the dagger still in her hand, thinking of what Galadriel had said. _To help guide you home, lest you ever forget yourself._

Laimea placed the dagger carefully upon the top of the wall, and then, after giving it one last, long look, she turned her back on it, and faced Anya. "I'm ready," she whispered.

Anya nodded gravely, and the two of them walked briskly toward the Healing House, leaving the dagger gleaming dully in the distant light of the flames.

_I don't need to be guided home_, Laimea thought as she walked beside Anya through the deserted streets. _I already am home._

* * *

There was little news now from outside the walls; the last Laimea heard was word brought from the last remnant of the guard posted at the point where Anórien and Rohan met with the townlands, and it was nothing she had not already suspected. The enemy had seized the northward road to Rohan, and had spread even into Anórien, and now the men of Gondor knew the Rohirrim could not come.

Laimea took the news without a word, feeling numb, thinking only of what Gandalf had told her the night before. The Rohirrim _would_ come, he had said, as would Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. And she had no doubt they would indeed come… eventually. But they would find only ruin when they arrived. Ruin and death…

The Healing House was already over crowded with the wounded and dying, and the few healers who had remained in the City were overwhelmed with the amount of injuries that needed treatment. All through the night Laimea worked; bandaging, soaking, stitching, and offering comfort. Slowly the hour of dawn approached, but she took no notice.

She felt nothing anymore, and thought nothing. Only the lives of those she could help mattered now, and she focused all her remaining energy on them. Her hair fell out of its braid, her eyes turned bloodshot, her hands and clothes became darkly stained with blood, but still she did not stop. She tried to ignore the moans and cries of pain that clogged the air of the Healing House, tried to shrug off the grasping hands that begged her for relief as she passed.

There were too many wounded. Laimea knew many would die before the morning bells sounded, and there was no time to save them. She tried not to think about it, forcing herself to work on one wounded soldier without looking to those on the next rows of beds and floor pallets.

At last she came to the final floor pallet on the front side of the Healing House, but as she consciously recognized the man who lay upon the hastily gathered blankets she gasped and dropped to her knees beside him.

"Baranor!" she cried, pressing a bloodied hand against the hot skin of his forehead. A sudden lump jammed into her throat when she saw the blood-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his middle. She tried to swallow, but when she spoke again her voice seemed small and weak.

"Baranor? Please… can you hear me?"

The man's eyelids fluttered, and then slowly opened. His blue eyes focused slowly, and he glanced over to her, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "Laimea," he croaked gruffly. "I am glad… you are here…" His eyes closed again and he took a slow, deep breath, but Laimea saw the tightening of his face.

She shook her head helplessly, carefully lifting his head to rest on her lap. She brushed his hair from his face and used the corner of the blanket to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Baranor," she whispered, struggling to contain the tears that suddenly pressed against her eyes, "I told you I did not want to see you in here."

The smile came again, briefly, and then vanished. He opened his eyes again, and this time they seemed clearer and more coherent. A small light of hope sparked within Laimea. Perhaps he was not as bad off as he appeared…

"And you told me you would stay in here," he countered at last.

Laimea stared at him. So even he knew what she had done. But of course he would know… he was an errand rider as well, and being a skilled horseman he also would have been summoned for the sortie. Likely she had ridden right by him without even seeing him. But he had obviously seen her. The jeering words of the soldiers came back to her and her face darkened, but she said nothing.

"It seems we are both… bad at keeping our promises," Baranor commented, and Laimea looked to him in surprise, realizing abruptly that Baranor did not think like the other soldiers. There was no anger or resentment apparent in his expression, just affection and an occasional flicker of pain.

"Of course," he went on, "I did not… really expect you to keep your promise. I'm surprised you… believed I would… keep mine." His smile came and went again, and he took another grimacing deep breath.

"What happened?" Laimea asked desperately, looking to his wound and once again berating herself for leaving the battle. If only she had kept her courage and stayed to fight… perhaps Baranor could have been saved this pain. Perhaps others here in the Healing House could have been spared…

Baranor grunted. "Cursed Southron. Got in under my guard… my fault. Should have seen it coming…" His words broke off as his fevered body broke out into a violent shudder.

Laimea gripped his shoulders, trying to steady him. He gave a small bark of pain as the trembling grew stronger, but then it quickly ceased, and he was left still again, gasping for air. His face grew very white, and Laimea reached over to the nearby pail of water, dipping a piece of blanket into it and then wringing out the fabric. She placed the cool cloth on the man's forehead, then grabbed his hand and clutched it as if she could pull him away from the pain.

"This is my fault," she choked out. "If I would have fought… maybe I could have helped you…"

He gripped the sleeve of her dress, pulling her forward so that her face was near to his. "Do not speak of such things," he hissed, and Laimea was shocked at his tone. "That is not true, and you know it."

He released her sleeve and Laimea sat back, watching him cautiously and feeling her fear for him strengthen once again. He had spoken firmly, but his voice rasped, as if he were trying to conceal a great amount of pain. She swallowed hard. "But I –"

"Do you still want to fight?" he demanded suddenly.

Laimea blinked, then moved the cool cloth to wipe the sweat from his face once again, looking away from his gaze. "I… I can't," she whispered. "I tried… I couldn't…"

"But do you _want_ to fight?"

She looked at him then, curiously, staring into his dark blue eyes. He met her gaze evenly, but sweat beaded on his forehead and his lips were drawn in a thin line across his face. The color had faded from his skin, and yet in the depths of his eyes she saw the spark of his determination, his will to live. She suddenly realized the hand she gripped held onto her fingers with its own strength, and all at once Laimea felt small and feeble. Baranor, errand rider of Gondor, had gone out to fight in the same battle as she. But he had not let fear conquer him, and he had not run. He had faced his enemies eagerly enough, and now he was severely wounded because of it. But still he did not fear. He saw death looming on the horizon and did not cringe away. That was true courage.

She blinked again, lifting his head off her lap gently and fluffing his makeshift pillow. Tears clouded her eyes as she pulled her fingers from his grip and shook her head. "No, Baranor," she croaked, "I cannot fight. I am… I am… too frightened."

She pulled another blanket over him and tucked it around his sides, and then she stood, refusing to look at him again, and moved on to the next wounded man.

* * *

Laimea at last fell into exhausted slumber sitting up in the back corner of the Healing House. She had meant only to take a brief rest, but the long stress of the battle and hours of tending to the injured finally caught up with her, and she was helpless to stop the oncoming sleep. Anya and the other Healers did not bother her; as they had each taken some rest themselves periodically throughout the night. And so Laimea slept, and dreamed, undisturbed.

She dreamed she floated above the great river Anduin, and she watched her reflection in the smooth, mirror-like waters below as she sailed along its course. She passed by a harbor-city, but it was blackened and burned, and columns of smoke curled up into the bright, sunny sky. She saw corpses on the shore, and corpses in the water, but she could not tell who these people were, and then they were behind her, and the river stretched on clear and clean ahead. Slowly she went, ripples spreading out from her passage even though she was not touching the water.

And then on the horizon she saw a massive cloud of black smoke, and as she rounded the gradual bend in the river she saw Minas Tirith. The once white-stone City built into the side of Mount Mindolliun now stood broken and blackened, and fires burned in nearly every circle. Hordes of Orcs overran the Pelennor and the townlands, and climbed like insects over the walls. Laimea's forward motion stopped, and she watched in horror as her City was destroyed and the river below her turned red with blood.

Laimea jerked awake with a cry, jumping to her feet and looking around wildly. She fell back against the wall, catching herself clumsily, and then realized at last where she was. No one had noticed her scream of terror this time, for her voice had been lost among all the others calling out in pain and grief. But she did not mind. She did not want to tell Anya about this most recent nightmare any more than she had wanted to tell the woman about the others.

Gulping in a deep breath to try and slow her racing heart, Laimea rubbed her eyes with the back of her wrist. She struggled to shake off the grim feeling the dream had left her with and went to the nearest window. She did not know how long she had slept, only that she had heard the morning bells chiming dully some time before she had gone to sit down. It must be afternoon now, she thought, although the sun could not be seen behind the permanent layer of brown clouds that suffocated the City.

A sudden noise reached her ears and the blood drained from her face at the sound of it. Crackling, roaring… shouting, screaming. A great creak and snap of some massive machine in the distance. And then that horribly familiar, bone jarring shriek of the Nazgúl that pierced her to her soul.

When the blackness cleared from her mind Laimea sprang up from her instinctive crouched position and raced for the door of the Healing House. She burst outside into the street and went immediately to the wall, looking out to the circles below her though she feared what she might see. But even that in her imagination could not come close to the sight that greeted her.

Fires burned uncontrollably in the first circle; orange flames devoured the sparse trees and licked at the stone of the houses and walls. Soldiers and other men ran everywhere, clearly unorganized and leaderless, running blindly in their terror of the winged Riders. A few who had kept their wits about them were busy trying to arrange a retreat to the second circle, but they were having little luck. A Nazgúl screamed and dove, and the men stopped what they were doing and cowered in its shadow. The winged creature swept over them, guided by the robed figure upon its back, and stretched out its claws to grab at the frozen soldiers. It caught several of them, and then with a powerful upstroke of its wings lifted them high into the air and carried them out over the townlands, where it promptly dropped them, leaving them to plummet hundreds of feet to their deaths.

Laimea squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her breath hitch in her throat as a fit of nausea rocked her. She gripped the wall before her, leaning on it for support, forcing herself to keep breathing. _This is wrong,_ she told herself. _This is not how it's supposed to be… this is not Gondor… this is not my City…_

The creak and snap of working wood came again and Laimea opened her eyes just in time to see a large round object fly into the air. It soared over the high outer wall of the City, sailing down in a smooth arc to crash into the lower circle, where it immediately burst into flame. Another creak and snap sent many smaller objects into the air, and these rained down upon the men and the fires in the first circle, but they did not burst into fire when they landed.

Still, she saw the soldiers react to them in a most horrible way, shouting and screaming frantically at the sight of them or dropping to their knees beside them. Laimea squinted, straining to see the smaller objects better, but the distance was too far. Another large one was hurled, adding more fuel to the fires already burning, and then another hail of small objects soared from the catapults' springs. One gleamed faintly as it curved high through the air, and Laimea suddenly recognized the silver shape of it. It was a Gondorian helmet… a Gondorian helmet on a severed head.

Laimea gagged at the realization and then leaned over and wretched, expelling all of what little she'd had to eat in the past day and a half. She made a face of disgust and spit, then wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. Slowly she stood again, steeling herself against farther bouts of illness, and looked out over the chaos below her once more.

_Faramir_, she thought helplessly. _Where is Faramir? He could settle the men… he would demand order… _But Faramir had been injured, and he had not been brought to the Healing House. What that meant Laimea did not know, but she could not bear to think he might be dead. He could not be… not when his City needed him so desperately…

Her eyes lifted to the lands beyond the outer wall, and all at once Laimea's heart quailed in her chest. She had heard rumors throughout the night of the Orc army that had moved in around the City, but their true numbers had only been guessed at in the dark. Now, in the grim daylight, their massive force was fully revealed. The whole of the Pelennor was black with their presence; individual regiments shifted and moved as one body, the giant catapults lined up along the front like looming sentinels, rows and rows of semicircle trenches scored the earth around the outer wall and flickered with more fire, blocking any passage to or from the City. And above it all circled the Nazgúl on their fell beasts, crying out in their cruel voices, causing even the bravest of men to hesitate in their duties.

The army of the Enemy went on for as far as she could see, and still there was word that more were coming across the Anduin even now. Laimea stepped back from the wall, feeling wooden. It was at that moment she realized Gondor had already been lost. No force she could imagine would be large enough to take on such an army, and certainly the few soldiers left in Gondor would not be enough.

She took another step back, already imagining the Orcs and Southrons and men of the East beating down the gate that led into the sixth circle. They would burst through the opening, overrun the streets, and crash into the Healing House, murdering all those who stood in their way, slaughtering all those she had tried so hard to save, and mutilating the bodies of those already dead.

Beneath the trembling fear that gripped Laimea's body a spark of anger flashed to life. The Orcs had taken her mother from her, they had driven her father away from her, they had slaughtered her friends, burned her orchard and destroyed her barn. For years they had haunted the paths of the world, making traveling dangerous and trade difficult. They murdered without thought, wanting only to satisfy their never ending bloodlust, and then they gleefully disgraced and disfigured the bodies of those they'd killed.

She thought of the many times she had come across the bodies of unlucky travelers on her errands. She remembered the aftermath of the Battle of Helm's Deep, the blanket of bodies left last night on the Pelennor, the severed heads even now being thrown out from the catapults so carelessly… she remembered darkly the day she had received the news of the attack on her parents…

Laimea felt her jaw clench involuntarily. The soldiers of the Enemy deserved worse than death for all the crimes they had committed. They had caused the people of Middle-Earth much grief, and Laimea suddenly wanted nothing more than to see the end of all of them.

But how? How could Minas Tirith outlast such an onslaught? The roads to the City were blocked. Even if the Orcs did not break down the Gate and enter the inside walls, even if the people remaining in Gondor were able to hold on to their hope despite the endless shadow of despair cast by the Nazgúl, the Enemy could still wield the weapon of hunger and starvation. The last stronghold of Gondor would not last forever… it could not.

The loud clatter of hooves on cobblestone broke Laimea from her thoughts and she looked up to see Gandalf racing down the winding road on Shadowfax. She opened her mouth to call out to him but he swept by her quickly, not giving her a second glance as he rushed down to the next circle. Laimea stared after him, but soon another set of hooves drew her attention, and then the Prince Imrahil sped by her on his large gray horse, his dark blue cloak flapping out behind him like the angry ocean's waves.

Laimea went to the wall again, looking down just in time to see the wizard and the Prince pass beneath her and then move on around the curve of the City into the brief tunnel that would lead to the next circle. And then she understood. They were riding down to take control of the panicked men below, to help restore order to the City's meager defenses.

A small tremor of anxiety rolled through Laimea's stomach. Where was Lord Denethor? Where was Faramir? Why had they not come out to take charge?

She refused the morbid thoughts that pushed to the front of her mind. _No_, she assured herself resolutely_. Faramir is_ not _dead. He is just very ill, and the Steward did not wish to leave him…._ She fiercely hoped her optimistic view of the situation was true. If it was not…

Laimea shut such ideas out of her mind, returning her attention to Gandalf and the Prince. The two men weaved their way through the spreading tongues of flame and shouted orders to the soldiers around them, gesturing with arm and staff. Slowly the men of Gondor began to come out of their madness and regain their focus. Archers tried for the front line of the Enemy's stand, but the distance was too far, and after only a few tries Gandalf called them back. The retreat to the second circle was arranged, and calmly the remaining soldiers marched through the gate, leaving the burning buildings and scattered, disembodied heads of their comrades behind.

Laimea felt a sort of calm fall over her as the wizard shut and barred the gate after the last soldier. Gandalf was in charge now, and he had Prince Imrahil to help him. Together they would settle the men; they would put in order the strongest defense that could be mustered with such limited resources. The Orcs would not cross the walls of Minas Tirith for a long while yet… not with such formidable foes as Gandalf and the Prince to face.

She turned away from the wall, looking up to the Tower of Ecthelion rising tall into the gloom. Gondor would not fall without a fight. Not without a long, hard fight. But for the moment there was nothing else she could do except to try and save more lives.

Her thoughts turned once more to Faramir. Why hadn't he been brought to the Healers? Surely Lord Denethor did not believe he possessed the skills necessary to remove the poison from Faramir's blood? She wished she'd of heard some news of the Captain's health, but if there were any outside the Citadel who knew whether Faramir lived or died, they had said nothing to her or any of the other Healers.

Laimea shook herself from her musings, moving slowly back toward the Healing House. It did not matter. She could do nothing for Faramir unless he was brought down to her, and since that had not happened yet it would do no good to worry about him. She had enough people to tend to already… and Baranor was among them.

She swallowed hard, trying to shut out the sounds of the burning trees and constantly-firing catapults behind her. Gandalf's mighty voice rang out over the commotion briefly, but then was drowned again. She couldn't help but wonder if those who had gone south were really any safer then those that had remained in the City. Baranor's wife and three sons came to mind and Laimea turned to look over her shoulder one last time. She gazed out over the walls, over the fire-filled trenches, over the thousands of Orc bodies that polluted the Pelennor. She looked out toward Lossernarch, following the vague, bone-white path that was the main highway, now barely visible through the smoke and clouds that hung low over the land. Beside the road flowed the Anduin, dim and sluggish in the dark daylight, and Laimea let out a heavy sigh.

That's where Baranor's family had gone, along with hundreds of other Gondorian citizens. They had fled just days before, seeking refuge from the Enemy. By Eru, had it only been days? It felt like years ago already… Laimea shook her head, turning away from the fields and the highway abruptly. She entered the Healing House once more, her eyes bleak and jaw set into a hard line.

She would not let Baranor die. For the sake of his wife and his sons, for the sake of Gondor, he could not die. Her eyes roamed over the crowded room, resting for awhile on each prone and bloodied form that occupied a bed or pallet.

None of them could die.

The Enemy could smash their walls, burn their fields, and blot out the sun, but he could not crush the spirit of Gondor. Gandalf would not let him, Prince Imrahil would not let him… _she_ would not let him. Laimea set tirelessly to work again, helping the wounded in any way she could, but this time her hands did not shake, and there was color in her cheeks. She had already made up her mind. If the Orcs got through to the Healing House, none would make it past the door while she still lived.

* * *

Legolas stood on the forward deck of the ship they had taken from the Pelargrir harbor, looking ahead at the slowly churning waters of the Anduin. The river was dark in the night, the stars above dull and far away. The only sounds were the slapping of the waves against the hull and an occasional creak as the ship's wooden planks shifted. The steady splashing of the oars that pushed them forward created a soothing rhythm that had lulled most of the men into a relaxed state of mind. Those who were not rowing had gone to the bunks to get some rest or to the galley to see if there was anything aboard suitable to eat.

But Legolas had not been able to relax. Nor had he been able to rest or eat. He had spent most of the trip up the river standing as he was now, looking at the water and the mirrored sky above. He had been vaguely aware of the activity around him as the men had finished preparing the ship to sail, but Legolas himself knew little of boats and preferred to stay out of the way. Then they had pushed off from the harbor and all above decks had gone silent. Legolas had been left alone with his brooding thoughts.

The battle at Pelargrir had been easy; most of the Haradrim had fled at the mere rumor that the King of the Dead approached. Those who had not run soon learned the error of their ways. They had been slaughtered by the Dúnedain or ended their own lives in their blind terror of the Dead. But Legolas was glad for the simple victory. None of the Dúnedain had been lost in the fight, and the Elf knew they would need every man, and every man at his full strength, once they reached Minas Tirith.

Legolas sighed, leaning forward on the rail and looking down to where the water split around the ship's prow. He could see the flow of the current frothing against the dark wood and frowned. They needed a wind to lift the sails. Trying to row against the Anduin's push made for slow progress indeed. But the aging night remained as still and stale as the air of a sealed tomb. Not even a hint of a breeze brushed across Legolas' face, and he straightened his stance once more with a grunt of disapproval.

This was no good. They were going to arrive too late. He could feel it within his body; a growing urgency that tightened his chest and clouded his mind. It grew stronger with every stroke of the oar, every mile of passing river bank. Already he could see a distant orange glow against the clouds in the north, and he knew what it was. Minas Tirith was burning. They _had_ to quicken their pace… they _needed_ a wind. Legolas lifted his eyes to the sky, beseeching the stars with his fair face, and began to pray.

"Legolas?"

The Mirkwood Elf turned at his name, surprised by the quiet voice. He was even more surprised to find the voice belonged to one of the sons of Elrond. But which of them had spoken he could not guess, for they now stood together on the deck and Legolas did not know them well enough to be able to distinguish their voices. He bowed to them in greeting, casting a discreet glance to their sword hafts as he did so, as that was the easiest way he knew of to tell them apart.

"Elladan, Elrohir." Legolas nodded to each individually once he was sure who was who, and the two brothers returned his gesture.

"You have insisted on standing up here all night," Elladan commented, moving with graceful strides to stand by the railing. "You have hardly moved. Have you no interest in going below decks with the others?"

Legolas cast his eyes at the river, shaking his head. "I am afraid not. I have much on my mind that requires attention." He turned his gaze back to Elladan. "And I prefer the open air. Below decks is far too… cramped."

Elladan smiled, his gray eyes like pools of silver in the dark. "You have begun to feel the sea-longing."

Legolas snapped his eyes back to the brother's face, his mouth dropping open. He glanced to Elrohir briefly, but then turned back to Elladan and nodded stiffly. "Yes…" he finally choked through his surprise, "I… I heard the gulls calling in Pelargrir. The Lady Galadriel warned me about them… but I did not think it would happen this soon." Legolas remembered his words to Laimea and frowned heavily. At the time he had not expected the inner stirrings to be felt for another few centuries, at least. And now here he was, sailing toward Minas Tirith not four days later, and the sea already beckoned.

But Elladan shrugged. "It is different for each of us. Some are never called to the sea, but for others it calls very early."

Legolas drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and faced the river again. "Yes…," he said quietly, "but there is still so much to be done here."

Elladan was silent for a moment, and once again the splashing of the oars rose to fill the stillness. "Of course," the older Elf said at last. "Many of us have purposes here we must yet fulfill. The sea will call to us, Legolas, but we must finish the tasks we have started here before leaving. To do otherwise would be inappropriate."

Legolas thought over the words, feeling a small rush of relief sweep over him. Elladan was right. Only after his duties here in Middle-Earth were done could he acknowledge the pull of the sea within him. He had made a promise to Aragorn, to the Fellowship, and even to Laimea. He would not break those promises.

"You are right," Legolas finally spoke aloud. He smiled at Elladan. "Wise words… learned from your father, no doubt."

Elladan chuckled. "Indeed, dear Prince. Indeed. It appears there are some advantages to having a lore master for a father after all."

Even Legolas had to laugh a little at the subtle jibe toward Elrond, and he suddenly noticed with a start how homesick he was. He had not thought of Mirkwood for a long time, and that realization caused a pang of guilt in his heart. He had been so busy… so preoccupied with the coming battle and worry for Frodo, Sam, and Laimea…

"Come, Legolas," Elrohir spoke up, nearly making the younger Elf jump with the abruptness of his voice. "You have had enough of standing up here thinking. You must come with us." The Rivendell Elf gestured widely with one arm toward the stairs that led to below decks. "Come with us and have a bit of a reprise from war and dire thoughts while you may."

Legolas hesitated. He had meant what he said earlier. Below decks _was_ more cramped then he would have preferred. "Thank you for the offer, my lord Elrohir, but-"

Elladan moved to Legolas' side, interrupting him with a touch on the arm. "Perhaps our Mirkwood kin has not heard of the fine wine the Haradrim have provided us on this trip?"

Legolas looked to the dark-haired Elf in question, but Elrohir took up where his brother had left off.

"Ah yes! Indeed. You must come and try the wine, Legolas. It seems the men of the south were quite adept at the art. But of course, there is none better here to tell us the true quality of the drink then you. It is well known the people of Mirkwood have an excellent taste in wine. So… what do you say? Will you at least come down and try it?"

Legolas lifted one eyebrow, eyeing Elrohir doubtfully. But already he could feel his jaw tingle at the thought of tasting a good wine. He had not thought of Mirkwood for many days, but he had not tasted good wine since… well, it had been months. He had tried a few drinks in Meduseld and Isengard, but none so far had been able to measure up to the fine stuff that could be found in his father's household.

He sighed. "Very well," he relented at last. "I will go and have a taste. But only a little, mind you. Another battle yet looms on the horizon."

"Yes," Elladan agreed, "and you should be fresh for it when we arrive. Let us go down."

Legolas nodded and allowed himself to be ushered down the lantern-lighted stairs by the two brothers, and then the three Elves ducked through the low doorway into the candle-lit interior of the ship.

* * *

Laimea sat next to Baranor, watching the man's fitful sleep with worried eyes. He had fallen unconscious some time ago and did not look to be improving. She absently chewed her lip as she wiped the sweat from his face, an action that had now become automatic. The din of the battle outside was only background noise; through the long hours Laimea had stopped hearing it altogether.

There had been no more men brought to the Healing House since the last few had come in with burns from the fires in the first circle. But the last of those had gone long ago, and for the moment there was nothing more Laimea or the other Healers could do for the injured still lying in the beds. It was up to the men themselves now to pull through or let go.

Laimea looked down to Baranor again. His blond hair lay damp across his forehead and over his ears and his body shivered uncontrollably. She remembered the look of determination in his eyes earlier. He was fighting the sickness within him with all his strength, but she did not think that it would be enough. Anya had told her the Southron's blade had nearly disemboweled the man, and though the wide gash had been securely stitched, the older woman was convinced the damage had already been done.

Laimea tried with all her might to keep her mind blank and numb. She tried not to think of the army waiting outside, tried not to see the blood on her clothes, tried not to believe that Baranor was dying. She tried not to think about his wife and sons, tried not to hope for the arrival of the Rohirrim, tried not to remember Legolas' soft voice as he sang her to sleep in the mountains. But despite all her trying, she could not stop the memories from coming. She could not stop the overwhelming feelings of hope and despair from rising within her. She felt all at once so helpless and so hopeless, and yet she could not make herself give up. Not yet. Somewhere within her there remained a gleam of faith, a belief that Gondor could prevail, a belief that the Rohirrim would come, a belief that Aragorn and Legolas would return, and that Baranor would live. She could not make herself completely believe otherwise, no matter how dire the situation seemed… it was just not in her nature.

She sighed quietly, drawing a third blanket up over Baranor to try and stop his shivering. She wiped the sweat from his forehead once more and then moved closer to his side. She rested one hand gently on the shape of his arm beneath the blanket, and then she closed her eyes, and reaching back many years into her memory she recalled a lullaby her real mother had used to sing to her when she was little. Laimea had never fully understood the words until her father had left her, and she had never sung the song even once since her mother's death, but now it seemed appropriate even despite the painful memories it refreshed in her mind. She started singing softly at first, and then as her tense and tired body began to relax under the soothing melody her voice grew in strength, until she filled the whole of the Healing House with mesmerizing song:

"Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

Night is falling

You have come to journey's end

Sleep now

Dream of the ones who came before

They are calling

From across a distant shore

Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away.

Safe in my arms

You're only sleeping…

What can you see

On the horizon?

Why do the white gulls call?

Across the sea

A pale moon rises.

The ships have come

To carry you home.

And all will turn to silver glass.

A light on the water

All souls pass..."

Her voice broke, a large tear rolling from the corner of her eye to trail a line of wetness down her cheek. She opened her eyes, knowing she could not finish the song without succumbing to the sobs that pressed against the back of her throat. She sat very still for a moment, trying to regain control of herself, and throughout the Healing House all was silent.

A great roll of drums pierced the quiet forcefully, startling Laimea and shattering the spell of the lullaby. She got to her feet carefully, going slowly to the window to look out into the darkness of the night. She craned her neck as far as she could, but the only thing visible in the blackness was the faint orange glow from the fires below. The Orcs on the Pelennor were now only dim black shapes, and it was nearly impossible to discern their movements among the bright orange flames still roaring in the trenches.

But the drums kept up a steady beat, pulsing and throbbing like some living thing. And then Laimea thought she saw something moving out on the fields of the townlands. A massive thing, far too large to be any kind of creature, and yet it was moving, slowly crawling to the Great Gate. Its sides shone dully in the light of the fires and around it marched a great host of Orcs and mountain trolls.

A constant shout grew from below, and it took Laimea a moment to realize it was the Orcs who were shouting and not the men of the Gondor on the walls. The drums pounded louder, faster. The massive thing came closer to the Gate, and finally Laimea was able to hear what they were saying.

"Grond! Grond! Grond!" they shouted, yelling in time with the beat of the drums.

Laimea straightened from the window, her eyes going wide. She had learned much of the Eldar's history while in Lothlorien, and Grond was a name she knew well. Grond had been the name of the Hammer of the Underworld, the infamous weapon wielded by Morgoth himself and the cause of High King Fingolfin's death in the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame. How many times had she found her father, even thousands of years after that battle had ended, still mourning the losses the Eldar had suffered there?

She stepped back from the window.

"L-Laimea?" a weak voice croaked, pulling the woman from her recollections. She turned around and went quickly to Baranor's side, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her body at the sight of him awake.

"Baranor!" she exclaimed quietly, dropping back down to sit by his side again. She shut off her ears from the shouting and the drums, trying to concentrate on her friend instead. "You are awake! I was growing worried…"

Baranor smiled weakly, but he could manage no other gesture. "Do not… worry… for me," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Worry… for Gondor…"

Laimea swallowed hard, leaning closer to him. She reached under the blankets to grasp his hand, but this time his fingers did not close around hers. "Gandalf and Prince Imrahil have taken control of our defenses," she told him. "They will be able to hold off the Enemy for awhile yet."

Baranor closed his eyes and Laimea squeezed his hand, trying to urge him to stay with her. He drew in a slow breath. "I only… hope… Gaelwen and the… boys… are safe. I do not… wish… to die… for nothing."

Laimea shook her head immediately, squeezing Baranor's hand tighter. "Oh no, Baranor," she whispered, her voice strained with the effort of holding in the tears. "You are not dying. You are not going to die. Gaelwen is safe, and so are your sons. And they will stay safe. I promise."

Baranor's blue eyes peeled open a crack, looking up into Laimea's face. "You cannot… make… such promises, Laimea," he whispered laboriously. "And you needn't… be afraid… for me. I do not… fear death. It is not such… a bad thing… if you… die for a… good cause." The man paused, gritting his teeth, and Laimea could feel his body trembling beneath the palm she had pressed to his hand.

A thunderous crash echoed through the night, causing Laimea to jump and Baranor's eyes to flash open wide. A murmur passed among those who were conscious in the Healing House and the remaining Healers stood from their seats slowly, looking around to each other nervously.

Laimea glanced to the window, hearing the drums pounding relentlessly, frantically, hearing the shouting grow louder.

"GROND! GROND! GROND!"

"What… is it?" Baranor rasped, his voice anxious, the shuddering in his body growing stronger for a brief moment.

Laimea licked her suddenly dry lips, turning back to the man lying on the floor next to her. Instantly she understood what that massive crawling thing in the fields had been and she knew it was what the Orcs referred to as Grond. She opened her mouth to answer Baranor's question but found her voice would not work. She took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart, and tried again.

"It's…" she cleared her throat as her voice cracked. "It's a battling ram," she said finally, breathlessly. "Grond. The Hammer. They are attacking the Gate."

Baranor squeezed his eyes shut again, shaking his head feebly from side to side. "Then… it has all… been in vain," he moaned thickly. "They will… come. Gondor… will fall. There… shall be… no escape… for anyone. It is… over…"

"No," Laimea choked out, refusing to hear the man's words of doom. She could hear no more of them, for her own hope hung on only by the barest of threads, and she was afraid that if Baranor gave in to despair, she would give in as well. "No, Baranor," she repeated more strongly. "There is yet some hope. We have Gandalf and Prince Imrahil and many strong and brave men on the walls. The Enemy will not find us an easy prey to subdue. That I _can_ promise you."

Baranor was silent, his glazed eyes staring deep into the tired and desperate eyes of his friend. At last the barest of smiles hinted at his pale lips, and the spark returned to the inner depths of his gaze. "Indeed," he whispered. "That you can promise." His fingers twitched around Laimea's hand, but he could no longer grasp. His body was swiftly becoming heavy and numb. He tasted blood in his mouth and knew his time was running out.

"Laimea," he said slowly, surprised at how hard he had to think to form the words. "You should not… doubt your courage. You… are strong… and you always… have been. Have faith… in yourself… as you have faith… in others. Do… not… blame yourself… for what… happened before. That… is the past. A life… lived in the past… is not… lived at all." A fit of coughing overtook him and Laimea lifted his head until it was over. He spit blood; she wiped it away, gently resting his head back on the pillow. But her eyes glittered with tears and her face was drawn with the realization of the inevitable.

Another loud crash sounded from outside, marking the second strike of the huge battling ram against the iron plated front of the Great Gate. The Gate itself was strong, but Laimea did not know how long it could withstand such a beating. It was only a matter of time…

"There is… little time left, Laimea," Baranor croaked. "For both… of us. Do not… spend the rest… of yours… hiding… in… humiliation. I know… the level… of your skills. Do not… waste them… by sitting here… in sorrow."

Laimea swallowed hard, her jaw aching from the withheld tears. She shook her head. "They will not get past this door while I still live," she growled hoarsely, briefly reminded of a similar oath Legolas had made long ago in the White Mountains. _Aragorn and Gimli shall not fall while I still live!_

Baranor nodded once, stiffly, and closed his eyes. "You… sang… of… ships," he whispered, his voice fading fast. "Please… sing… again? Don't… want… to hear… drums… in the… last… of… my… life."

Laimea choked on a sob, quickly bringing a hand to her mouth and pressing her fingers to her lips to hold in the grief that squeezed her chest. She gulped in a few breaths until she gained control of herself again and clutched Baranor's hand. Despite her best efforts the tears could no longer be contained, and as she struggled to gather what was left of her voice she felt hot trails make their way down her face. She cleared her throat, looking down at Baranor's ghostly features and refusing to acknowledge anything else around her. She took a deep, shaking breath.

Although unsteady and ragged in some places with the emotion of the singer, the gentle tune still soothed many of the hurting as it floated once more through the rooms of the Healing House:

"Hope fades,

Into the world of night.

Through shadows falling,

Out of memory and time.

Don't say

We have come now

To the end.

White shores are calling,

You and I

Will meet again.

And you'll be here

In my arms

Just sleeping…

What can you see

On the horizon?

Why do the white gulls call?

Across the sea

A pale moon rises

The ships have come

To carry you home…"

Laimea stopped, unable to continue. Baranor's breath had stilled and his body no longer trembled. He was gone.

She withdrew her fingers from his and covered her face with her hands, all at once releasing the anguish that had been building within her for hours. Immense, shoulder shaking sobs engulfed her and she sank to the floor beside the body of her comrade, remembering all the other times she had mourned for lost family and friends, thinking that no matter how many times she had to go through it, it never got any easier.

The drums outside took up a frenzied beat again, pounding into her brain, grating against her nerves, echoing against the walls of the City. "Grond! Grond! Grond!" they still shouted from below in maddening rhythm. Laimea shook her head, pressing her fists to her temples, willing them to stop. _Curse them_, she thought. _Curse them! They will not take this City!_

A white hot rage exploded within Laimea and she jumped to her feet abruptly, spinning on her heel and running for the door of the Healing House. Anya rose to intercept her but Laimea dodged past the older woman, ignoring the shouts of protest and warning. She burst through the door into the street and ran with all the speed she could manage toward the gate that led to the fifth circle.

She passed through it quickly and was nearly through to the fourth circle when the deafening boom and ear-splitting crack of splintering wood shattered the early dawn and made her instinctively duck. She recovered swiftly, moving immediately to the wall to look down at the Gate. But it had been broken through, and the massive metal head of the battling ram, which she now saw had been shaped like a wolf, glared with a ravenous smile upon the few Gondorian soldiers who had stayed to face whatever came through the opening.

Laimea herself did not wait to see what the Enemy would send through. She tore off from the wall and went to her and Anya's City household, gathering the scattered pieces of her armor as hastily as she could. She struggled to fasten the buckles of her bracers and pauldrons with trembling hands, knowing she did not have much time if she hoped to help the defenses at the Gate. She was just about to settle the helmet over her head when she heard, from somewhere within the City, a cock crow.

She tucked the helmet under her arm, listening in bewilderment as the animal crowed again, welcoming the sun still hidden behind the shadows and oblivious to the war and death that took place around it. But then…

The blood drained from Laimea's face and her knees buckled. She barely caught herself on the edge of her bed before falling to the floor. She froze, muscles locked with both disbelief and fierce, flaming hope. But then it came again, and again, and again. It was not a dream.

Horns. Horns of the North wildly blowing. The Rohirrim had come at last.

Tears of joy sprang to her eyes unexpectedly and Laimea jumped to her feet, jamming her helmet onto her head and sprinting back up the sloping, curving road toward the stables in the sixth circle. _They came! They came! Just as Gandalf said they would… they have not arrived too late… there may be a chance for us yet…_

By the time she reached the stables she was gasping for air, but she did not spare a moment to rest. Morsul saw her enter and whinnied in greeting, his ears pricked forward eagerly. He could smell the tension in the air and was anxious to be released.

Laimea grabbed his bridle from the hook and slipped it over his head easily, then led him from the stall. She did not bother with his saddle or her shield. Both would only slow her down, and she did not have much time as it was. The Gate was wrecked and soon the forces of the Enemy would pour into the circles of the City itself. She needed to get out while she still could. She would ride with the Rohirrim… and then she would make sure no Orc, Easterling or Haradrim lived to pass through the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith.

Laimea caught two handfuls of Morsul's long mane and swung herself aboard his broad back. Her rear had hardly settled before he took off, bolting out through the open barn doors and tearing off down the street with more speed then Laimea had ever known he possessed. She leaned low over his neck, grateful for the cheek guards of the helmet as his black mane whipped out in the air around her. The stallion slid around the street corners with his momentum, but even when catching his balance again he hardly slowed, and it was all the soldiers on the second level could do to move out of his way before he trampled them. Laimea shouted for the second gate to be opened and an alert soldier pulled the door ajar just before the horse and clinging rider raced through.

They galloped straight for the jagged remains of the Gate. Somewhere out of the corner of her eye Laimea thought she saw the white blur of Gandalf sitting on Shadowfax, but Morsul would not slow. She raised her eyes to look through to the other side of the Gate and felt a cold tendril of fear snake through her gut at the sight of the waiting mass of twisted faces. But then she thought of Baranor, now lying dead in the Healing House above. She thought of Faramir, also most likely dead. She thought of the innocent murdered travelers, her fellow errand riders, her mother, and her father. She thought of Anya, Legolas and Aragorn, Gimli and the Hobbits Merry and Pippin. The fear within her vanished as a renewed surge of purpose coursed through her limbs.

She straightened upon Morsul's back, one hand clutching the reins and a handful of mane as the other reached across her hip to draw Nimrunya from its scabbard. She held the blade up high as the stallion charged fearlessly at the Gate. Already a few Orcs were climbing through the gaping hole, but the horse showed no signs of balking at the obstacles and Laimea realized at once he meant to jump them.

The horns of the Rohirrim blasted again, filling the morning with a thunder of new hope and new resolve. Laimea raised her sword again, all doubt leaving her. The Enemy could not be allowed to triumph. Nothing else mattered.

She kicked her heels into Morsul's sides, urging him on with her body and her voice, and he flew over the cobbles. The Orcs scrambling over the cracked and broken boards of the Gate paused to stare at the black and gold fury bearing down upon them. Laimea's dark eyes were as wild as the stallion's, and as the horse gathered himself to jump she screamed out with all the years of pain and wrath within her: "_Death to the Enemy! DEATH!_"

Morsul launched himself into the air, tucking his forelegs beneath him, soaring over the piles of splintered wood and crumpled iron and panicked Orcs below. He landed heavily on the other side, and without hesitation Laimea and her mount plunged into the waiting throng of foes.

* * *


	14. When All is Forlorn

**A/N:** This chapter is sort of a combination of both the movies and the books, so I hope I don't confuse anyone. If you have watched the movies and read the books, you should be able to tell where I drew from the books and which parts are from the movie. For instance, in this chapter Arwen's standard is black (book), the army of the Dead does not help in the Battle of the Pelennor (book), but Legolas still does his little stunt with the _mûmakil_ (movies), etc. If you have not read the books (or seen the movies), then obviously the parts where you are thinking: "That's not how it happened!" are from whichever you have not seen/read. I just felt that this was the best way to incorporate the best battle stuff from both the movies and the books. Also, I apologize (as always) for the tardiness of this chapter and wish to say a BIG thank you to all of my patient readers, and of course, my dear tolerant betas! (PS: There are two quotes from the book in this chapter, those words are NOT my own and I do not claim them to be, they belong to Mr. Tolkien!)

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**Chapter Fourteen: When All is Forlorn **

Gimli lumbered up the short flight of stairs, taking in a deep breath of the cool night air as he emerged from the warmth of the ship's cabin below. He stepped out onto the forward deck, his eyes only roaming briefly before he found who he was looking for.

The Dwarf shook his head as he noted the familiar slim outline of the Elf standing at the railing. Elladan and Elrohir may have been able to convince Legolas to come down and try the wine, but the Mirkwood Princeling had only stayed long enough to sip one glass before excusing himself to go topside once more.

Gimli sighed and made his way across the worn and faded wooden planks of the deck to stand at the Elf's side. He was distinctly reminded of the morning they had stood side by side at the wall of Helm's Deep, looking out to the death and destruction below. Now they stood side by side at the prow of a Haradrim vessel, sailing ever-so-slowly toward a battle that could very well prove to be hopeless.

Gimli glanced up to the black sails that stretched above him, his frown deepening. There was no wind. No wind at all. The night remained deathly quiet save for the constant stroke of the oars and occasional stirring of the Dûnedain. He turned his gaze to the east and felt his heart flutter. Dimly, below the roiling gloom of Mordor, he saw the barest light of dawn. But they were still too far away from Minas Tirith. Even now the City was only a small orange flicker and column of smoke on the horizon.

The Dwarf dropped his hand to the throwing axe on his belt, thinking of the wager he had made with Legolas just days before. At the moment Gimli led by two, but the triumph he should have felt at having the Elf beat – even if it were only for a short while – was considerably dampened by the current situation. For the past many weeks Gimli had successfully kept himself from overly worrying about Frodo and Sam, convincing himself that the two very resourceful Hobbits would surely find some safe way to reach Mount Doom. But as the others of the broken Fellowship had come ever closer to Mordor themselves, the Dwarf had felt his resolve weakening. No matter how hard he reasoned with himself, he could not imagine how two little Hobbits could survive the darkness and danger that dwelt on the far side of the Mountains of Shadow.

But even more frustrating was the knowledge that he could do nothing to help them. Gimli's fingers tightened unconsciously around the haft of his throwing axe. He despised feeling helpless… he loathed it. He supposed that was why he was so eager to reach the city of Minas Tirith. The people there needed him, and he could help them. He could _do something_ for them… Gimli took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on the burning city. He thought of Legolas' request should the Elf win the wager: a translation of the phrase Laimea had uttered to the Elf as her final goodbye.

Gimli felt his heart ache and wished he had never indulged the girl's interest in the Dwarfish language. Of course he could not have known she would use the words in such a manner, but that did not mean they were his to translate. He would just have to be sure he did not lose this contest.

Gimli glanced to Legolas, wondering if the Elf's present thoughts included Laimea. He thought of the reassurances he had offered the Prince while still at Helm's Deep. _Surely she has left the City by now. No captain would permit her to act as a soldier of war._ Gimli could only hope that were true, for the battle that now raged at Minas Tirith was fierce, and it did not look to be going well for Gondor.

Legolas stirred, startling Gimli, and the Dwarf looked up only to see a smile spread suddenly across the Elf's face. "Up with your beard, Durin's son!" Legolas said brightly. "For thus it is spoken: _Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn_."

Gimli stared at his friend, struggling to comprehend this abrupt change of mood, but Legolas only clapped the Dwarf on the shoulder and then moved off to descend below decks. Gimli watched him disappear down the stairs, mouth still open with the question he'd never gotten to ask. After a moment Gimli shook himself of his confusion, determining to follow Legolas until the Elf gave him some answers, but as he headed toward the staircase a quiet noise suddenly caught his attention.

Gimli stopped, listening. It came again: the soft rustling of canvas, the clink of rope hooks against the mast… he looked up, feeling his heartbeat quicken. In the dark of the early dawn the black sails above him shifted, slow billowing waves moving down their lengths. They swelled, pulling the ropes taut, carrying the ship forward, and at last Gimli felt it. A cool breeze brushed across his cheeks, riffling his beard, and Gimli thought he had never felt anything so good. He smiled, a low chuckle rising from his throat, and then he quickly scampered down the stairs to find Legolas.

* * *

The Orcs scattered before Morsul's hooves, the gleam of the Elvish blade and golden armor alighting an ancient terror in their hearts. Laimea urged the stallion through the masses, wildly swinging her sword from side to side, feeling the sharpened edge sink into flesh and leather armor, hearing it clash occasionally against a hastily upraised shield. She refused to look at the hundreds of enemy soldiers that surrounded her, keeping her eyes instead on the approaching forms of the Rohirrim upon the far hill. She could just barely see them now… a dark movement across the gray plains, growing swiftly. That was her aim now, and she recklessly rode for it. 

Her left hand was tangled in Morsul's long mane, the reins clutched somewhere in her sweaty palm, but she did not attempt to guide the horse's movements. Instead she let him find his own way through the trenches of fire and shouting, sword-waving enemies. She concentrated only on keeping her balance and preventing any of the blades from reaching her or Morsul, for she knew that if she were to fall off here there would be little chance of her surviving long enough to even hit the ground. Occasionally, when Morsul began to wander off Laimea's planned course, she would nudge him with her leg to put him in the right direction again. Still, despite the obstacles, the stallion's stride hardly faltered. He swerved between the Orcs and Southrons, galloping down the narrow aisles of their regiments so that his path was virtually unhindered. In the confusion of the Rohirrim's arrival there were few enemies who could gather their wits about them quickly enough to offer any resistance to the horse and rider who had so unexpectedly left the shelter of the City.

But Laimea did not let the lack of challengers still her sword. She struck out at any body that passed within reach, knowing that the more she could kill, the fewer that would be left to sack the City.

She broke through a final disorganized knot of Orcs into the open and Morsul picked up speed again, heading straight for the forming ranks of Rohirrim on the hill. The stallion's nostrils flared as he raced across the grasses, and Laimea felt his body quiver beneath her as he bellowed out a neigh of greeting to the Rohan horses.

Several eager whinnies answered him, and through the rush of wind in her face Laimea could see the lines of anxious mounts prancing and pawing in place, their riders struggling to hold them back. A lone armor-clad figure on a white horse ran back and forth before the ranks, and as she drew closer she realized it was king Theoden. Laimea lowered her sword at last, untangling her hand from Morsul's mane and trying to slow the stallion's breakneck pace.

The horse fought her command, pulling against the bit in protest, but Laimea tightened her grip on the reins and at last Morsul dropped from the full out gallop into a swift trot. Laimea guided him around to the right, suddenly afraid of being seen by Theoden. What if he told her she could not ride with him? What if he told her to wait here on the hill while he took the rest of his men into battle? She had not come all the way out here to be left behind… _And the last time you thought this way you accomplished nothing except to humiliate yourself_, a voice snapped in her head.

Laimea bit her lip, slowing Morsul from his fast trot into a brisk walk. He snorted loudly, chewing the bit, clearly irritated at her hesitation. She ignored the horse, looking instead toward Theoden. The king was riding away from her, his shouted words of encouragement faint upon her ears:

"Arise, arise, Riders of Theoden! Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"

She sat a moment in indecision, remembering with painful clarity the jeering of the soldiers that had followed her last attempt at fighting. _No more of your war hero fantasies. _Her eyes unconsciously narrowed. _That's not what this is about_, she argued silently, wishing she had had the strength to speak up against Huirion when the man had first spoken the accusation. _They killed Baranor, and Faramir, and so many others. So very many others…I can't let them win, I have to do _something_… anything… _She twisted on Morsul's back to look behind her, and her eyes widened at the sight that befell her.

Minas Tirith's once gleaming white walls were now scarred with black soot and pitted with holes where the catapult's stones had landed. Flames and billowing black smoke rose above the first circle, partially obscuring the dimmed glory of the Tower of Echthelion. And all around the base of the first wall, crowding around the broken Gate like a horde of starved vultures, the soldiers of the Enemy swarmed; a dark sea of living hate moving over a blackened land of fire and death.

She swallowed hard, her eyes drifting down to her bloodstained sword. How she had made it through that mass unharmed and alive she did not know. But she had, and now _she_ had the advantage. Only a small group of the enemy soldiers were turning to face the gathered Rohirrim; the rest were too busy eyeing the prize of the open City to pay much attention to the shouted orders of their regiment leaders.

Laimea looked back to the front. Thousands of green-cloaked riders stood in front of her, patiently awaiting the order of their king, the nearest ones to her curiously following her approach with their eyes. The sortie had had only a hundred men at the most… here were thousands. _Thousands_. Surely their numbers would be enough to tip the tide of battle in Gondor's favor?

She gritted her teeth, letting up on the reins, and immediately Morsul kicked up into a canter, letting out another nicker as he came up alongside the Rohirrim horses. Heads turned and followed Laimea as she headed for the rear of the company. She had to hide herself from Theoden, and in such bright gold armor it would not be the easiest thing to do. But she could not go back. And she would not stay here. Riding with the people of Rohan was her best chance of being able to contribute something to this war… it was her only chance left. She would not fail the Steward this time. She would not fail her City…

The lines of Rohirrim parted as she maneuvered Morsul into their ranks, and she felt her cheeks burn as the confused and suspicious whispers began to circulate. The stares were nearly unbearable, and Laimea resolutely kept her gaze straight ahead, her back rigid, praying that Theoden would not hear of the mysterious stranger who had so suddenly joined his ranks until after he had already ordered the charge.

A Rider next to her cleared his throat, and then leaned slightly in her direction. "Pardon, my lady," he asked shyly, "but are you really one of the Fair Folk?"

Laimea turned to face him in surprise, but then realized what her armor and lack of saddle must have looked like to these men. Her face flushed even hotter, and she thought she must have been as red as her cloak. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could speak King Theoden's voice echoed out over the plains and abruptly drew her attention to the front:

"Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!"

The front lines swept forward, matching the mad gallop of their king, and after them all the Riders of Rohan followed. Laimea felt a tremble in the earth, a vibration that began in her chest and slowly built into a low rumble like the coming of a mighty storm. Then it was her turn to follow the charge, along with all the other Riders in her company, and together they surged forward as one, the horses leaping out in their impatience to join the others ahead and gaining speed with impossible quickness. Morsul stretched out to his full speed; Laimea was vividly reminded of her race with Legolas in the foothills of the White Mountains. Her stallion sped by the Rohan horses, his blood already hot and battle-ready, and the low rumble multiplied into the roar of so many thousands of pounding hooves.

A unified shout rose up among the Rohirrim, barely discernable above the horses' thunder, but Laimea could understand it, and the sense of blind purpose that had urged her to jump the broken gate of Minas Tirith welled up within her again. She raised her already bloodied sword and joined the shout.

"Death!" she cried, her voice drowned in the deafening chorus. "Death!" the men shouted from all around her. "Death!" the king screamed from the lead, and his horse Snowmane could not be outrun.

The fields of the Pelennor throbbed with their coming, and Laimea could not imagine any being would stand unshaken before such wrath.

The Rohirrim slammed into the rear lines of Orcs, Southrons, and Easterlings with the force of a tidal wave raking the shore. The enemy was easily knocked aside and trampled by the endless hooves, and any that escaped the horses were swiftly chased down and slaughtered by Rohan sword and spear.

Laimea stayed within her adopted company, knowing full well that in this kind of fight she was safer among others than alone. The thunder of the horses' charge still filled her ears; the battle cries of the Rohirrim rose and fell over the noises of swords and shields. The dying shrieks of the Orcs and Easterlings pierced the air with surprising frequency, and Laimea only felt a cold contentment at the knowledge that the Rohirrim were finally repaying the debt Gondor owed to these servants of Sauron.

She took control suddenly of Morsul's wild running and turned him around to circle behind a wide rank of Orcs. She drove the great black horse into the knot of foul creatures and lifted her sword high, then repeatedly brought it down upon her enemies with great strokes. They fell under her blade easily, for Nimrunya's edge had been honed to razor sharpness. A few of the Orcs' black blades hit against the golden lames of her armor, but none were strong enough to pierce it, and Laimea gave a hoarse cry as she successfully slaughtered the entire group.

She moved on to the center of the enemy's hasty retreat, where several fierce Southrons had managed to dismount a few of the Rohirrim and now surrounded the Riders. She raced toward them madly, swinging her bloodstained sword, and Morsul ran straight into the nearest Southron, trampling the man underfoot. The stallion passed the group, but with the barest touch of Laimea's heel Morsul pivoted on his haunches, coming back around to face the enemy.

Laimea drove her sword point between the cuirass and pauldron of one shouting Southron, felling him quickly and leaving only two alive. The one uninjured Rohirrim remaining gave a yell and tackled one, and Laimea swung around to engage the last one.

But the tall and lanky Southron dodged her sword and ducked under Morsul's neck, coming up on the opposite side of the horse and catching a handful of Laimea's red cloak. He yanked hard, and though Laimea fought to regain her balance she could not hold on. She was dragged from Morsul's back and rolled as she hit the ground, coming immediately to her feet and fighting down the panic that abruptly burst through her chest.

The Southron seemed surprised at her swiftness, for he had gotten used to the slower movements of the silver clad men of Gondor, but he wasted no time in his attack. He lashed out with his broad sword and Laimea jumped backwards, barely missing the tip of the blade. She glanced up to look for her horse, and was reassured to find him galloping in a wide circle back to her. She turned her attention to her enemy again just in time to block his next strike. The force of his second hit jarred her arms and Laimea stumbled back, fighting to keep her footing on the uneven ground.

The Southron's hard-edged face grinned from ear to ear, and he scowled out mocking words in a foreign tongue. But Laimea could not even begin to understand him, and she did not try. It was all she could do to keep up with his attacks. She could think of nothing else except keeping that bloodied blade from reaching her body… but with every parry she felt her arms weakening.

She became vaguely aware of Morsul pacing not far away. If she could just reach him… get aboard his back once more… her booted feet backed into a hard object and Laimea cried out as she fell, landing in a heap on her back. She rolled away just in time to miss the sword that swung for her neck. She leapt to her feet once again, staring down at the body she had tripped over and swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.

She turned her eyes away from the dead quickly, lifting her sword hurriedly as the Southron swung once again. The strength behind this strike nearly knocked her blade from her hand, yanking the muscles of her right shoulder painfully as she fought to keep her grip on Nimrunya's curved pommel. The Southron's next swing finally broke through her defenses, and the edge of his heavy blade came down upon the mail that covered Laimea's left arm.

She cried out with the pain that shocked up through her elbow, dropping her sword in her shock. The Southron's grin turned cold, his eyes wide with lust for blood, and he planted a hand on her chest, shoving her brutally to the ground. Laimea grunted as she fell next to the body of a Rohirrim rider. She turned her head to look at the soldier's face, seemingly in a daze as the Southron above her lifted his sword high for the fatal blow.

Laimea squinted, suddenly recognizing the fallen Rohirrim's features. She distinctly remembered seeing him at Helm's Deep… his name was Ceorl, if she remembered correctly, and he was one of those who had been in Meduseld when she had first spoken to King Theoden. Horror stabbed through her, followed immediately by an intense rush of anger that brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Almost without thinking Laimea raised her right arm, the metal bracer on her wrist knocking away the blade that soared for her head. Her left hand pulled the dead Rohirrim's dagger from his belt, and in one smooth motion she surged to her feet, driving the serrated knife blade deep into the belly of the attacking Southron.

The man gave a grunt as he doubled over Laimea's arm, the sword in his hand falling to the ground. Laimea felt the warmth of blood through the leather of her glove, but she paid it no heed. "For my friends," she whispered huskily into his ear, and then she ripped the knife sideways, effectively disemboweling the man, and let his body drop. He lay there, one hand twitching, blood pooling from his mouth as his entrails slipped out onto the trampled grass.

Laimea turned away from the gore, reaching down to get her sword. She stuck the bloody knife in her sash and straightened, looking out to the battle that raged around her. A slight breeze brushed against her face, cool against her sweaty skin. She looked to the south, facing the oncoming wind, and felt her heart abruptly drop into her stomach.

Far on the horizon, moving swiftly upriver, were three black sails. She recognized them as ships from the south, and with dismay realized they could only be carrying more reinforcements for Sauron's army. Tears stung her eyes. _No_, she told herself weakly. _No, this cannot be. There are too many of them already, how can there be more?_

But there they were. And they would arrive at the docks all too quickly. Laimea gritted her teeth, desperately trying to ignore the utter despair creeping up her throat. This just could not be possible…

And then, faintly through the haze and confusion of the battle, she saw a black flag hoisted up the mast of the leading ship. It reached the top of the center mast, slowly unfurling in the strengthening wind, and Laimea did not believe what she saw embroidered upon it.

A white tree… topped with a crown and surrounded by seven glittering stars. The sign of Elendil. The sign of the King of Gondor. The sign of…

"_Aragorn_!" Laimea breathed, a thrill of both disbelief and pure joy racing up her spine and giving her goosebumps. She jumped up and down without realizing it, her voice growing louder and louder as she shouted. "Aragorn! It's Aragorn! Hail Aragorn! Oh, thank the Valar, it's Aragorn!"

Her attention was drawn sharply back to the battle when a near Orc charged at her, its face twisted horrendously by scars and a wicked scowl. She ducked the black blade and sprinted toward where Morsul paced anxiously behind a Rohirrim and Easterling fighting hand to hand. The Orc gave chase, but its stunted legs could not keep up with Laimea's strides, and she reached Morsul's side and swung up upon his back before the Orc got another chance to swing at her. She dug her heels into the stallion's ribs and he took off in the direction of the docks. Laimea's eyes focused on the flag fluttering in the gray morning light, and she didn't think she had ever seen a more beautiful sight.

Gandalf had been right. Aragorn had come… and perhaps he had not come too late. _Oh Aragorn! …But what of Legolas…_ Laimea's breath caught in her throat at the thought. Surely Legolas and Gimli both would be accompanying Aragorn… those two never left that man's side… She shook her head, unwilling to think of what an encounter with Legolas might be like on this battlefield. No… she would have to avoid that for now… she needed to keep her focus on her enemies if she wished to survive long enough to ever see Legolas - or any of the others - again.

A low trumpeting noise toward the east drew her from her thoughts, and she slowed Morsul's pace to listen. It came again, louder this time, and was quickly joined by two and then three other separate trumpets. But there was something about this sound that stirred an uneasy dread within Laimea's stomach. This noise did not sound like it came from horns. It sounded like it came from… animals.

She turned Morsul abruptly to face distant Mordor, scanning the dust- and smoke-filled horizon with her eyes. There was movement far off, vague dark shapes drifting through the haze, but she could not quite discern what they might be. The trumpeting came again, harsh and angry, and then she heard the chanting. Very faint and barely audible over the massive noise of the war already taking place, the constant rhythm of the words rolled over the fields of the Pelennor and drained the blood from Laimea's face. At once she forgot about Aragorn and Legolas and their boats. She urged Morsul eastward, silently praying that the dark shapes were not what she thought them to be.

She saw, several hundred yards to her left, King Theoden on Snowmane gathering what remained of his Riders around him. They were lining up for another charge, facing the east, readying to combat whatever it was that would emerge from the smoke. Laimea once again slowed Morsul's gallop to a trot, feeling more and more apprehensive the closer she came to the lumbering shapes.

At last one of them broke through the cloud, and it lifted a long gray trunk, bellowing mightily, swinging its gigantic, six-tusked head from side to side and flapping monstrous ears. The ground shook with the creature's every step; around its ankles and lowest-curving tusks had been strapped severe-looking arrangements of wooden spikes. The wrinkled forehead and a great portion of the trunk had been painted with fierce designs in red and black, and upon the creature's broad back was a canopied platform packed full of war-ready Haradrim, who chanted unceasingly.

Laimea pulled Morsul to a halt, staring up at the impossibly large beast with mingled terror and awe. She had heard of such animals before, but she had never seen a living one, and she had never desired to. Now she knew why. The _mûmakil_ were far more frightening in the flesh than they had looked in any of the illustrations she had seen. She swallowed hard, feeling her heart sink as more and more of the_ mûmakil _emerged from the darkness.

She startled as King Theoden's voice echoed over the clamor of fighting, ordering the start of his second charge. Laimea watched the Rohirrim rush forward, once more following their king into the midst of death, raising a great cloud of dust behind them. She watched them go, and then, not allowing herself to think of the certain doom that awaited her among the legs of those massive beasts, she charged forward after the Riders of Rohan.

* * *

Gimli pulled his second throwing axe from his belt, waiting eagerly at the gangplank as the ship was carefully maneuvered into the port of Harlond. His gloved hands each held an axe now, and he hefted their weights in his palms as he readied himself mentally for battle. 

The smell of acrid smoke was heavy in the air, the burning stench of singed hair and charred flesh strong enough to make one reel upon first arrival. But Gimli and the others on the boats had had plenty of time to get used to the smell as the boats were docked, and all the men save those captaining the sailed vessels now stood ready and waiting on the upward decks.

Legolas stood stiffly beside the Dwarf, and this time Gimli did not need to wonder what thoughts might be on the Elf's mind. The sharp blue eyes were constantly scanning the movements on the battlefield, although how the Elf could expect to single out just one individual among the masses Gimli did not know. Still, he knew who Legolas was looking for, and the Dwarf prayed she would not be found. Not here… not in this horrible place of death and destruction…

Gimli shook such thoughts from his head. He could not think of such things now. He could not think of Gandalf and Pippin, whom he knew were somewhere in the chaos spread before him… he hoped somewhere safe, if any safe places could be found. He could not think of Merry, left behind with the people of Rohan; he could not think of Frodo and Sam, lost somewhere on the other side of the dark mountains looming in the east. And he could not think of Laimea. Perhaps she was still in the City, perhaps she was not, but she was not his concern at this point, and the Dwarf knew she could not be Legolas' concern at this point either, or the Elf would never live through this battle.

He cleared his throat, adopting a carefree tone as he spoke and nudging Legolas in the side with his elbow. "Still confident about your wager, Master Elf? You do realize you are still two behind my count, of course."

The Elf glanced down to his friend, and to Gimli's relief the worry-clouded eyes slowly cleared. Legolas raised his brows, and then without a word drew his bow from its sheath upon his back. He tossed a sideways glance to Gimli as he slowly pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it.

Gimli narrowed his eyes. "Now just what do you think—"

The Elf released the arrow abruptly and it sliced through the air so fast that Gimli did not even see where it went. An Orc at a distance of about three hundred yards suddenly went rigid, and Gimli's mouth fell open as he realized there was a green-feathered arrow protruding from the back of the creature's neck. The Orc staggered for a moment and then fell to the ground face-first.

Legolas smiled ever so slightly. "One," he stated simply, and retrieved another arrow from his quiver.

The Dwarf whirled on the Elf angrily. "Legolas! You know perfectly well that is cheat—"

The second arrow zinged from the bow, felling a second Orc even farther away than the first one. Legolas turned to Gimli, his eyes shining with the triumphant gleam the Dwarf had quickly come to dislike. "Two," the Elf said smugly, obviously quite pleased at his own cleverness. "It seems that we are now tied, my friend."

Gimli sputtered. "Only because you cheated! You know perfectly well that is not fair! If I had a weapon that could reach such a distance—"

"What about your throwing axes?" Legolas asked, nodding toward the two hatchets currently clenched in Gimli's fists. "Surely those nearest Orcs are within your range?"

Gimli glared at the Elf for a few more seconds before turning away to glance out at the nearest scattering of Orcs. Even the very nearest one was still almost thirty yards away, and Gimli knew that even his best throw would be hard-pressed to make that distance, to say nothing of accuracy. He scowled, looking back to the Elf. "My throwing axes are not nearly so disposable as your arrows, Legolas," the Dwarf muttered defensively. "These were individually hand crafted, passed down to me from my father, and passed down to my father from his father—"

"Then would you like to borrow my bow?" the Elf asked, offering out the long, finely carved Galadhrim weapon and raising his eyebrows in question.

Gimli peered up at his friend. The look of amusement on Legolas' face was so apparent that for a moment the Dwarf wished he could just give the Elf a good clout over the head. But as it were, Gimli realized there was really only one way to get Legolas to stop smiling.

"Very well," he relented at last, "if I must." The Dwarf took a deep breath, turning away from the offered bow and walking up to the deck's railing, bracing himself into a throwing stance. He lifted his right hatchet and took a moment to properly balance it in his palm. He chose his target carefully, took aim, and then hurled the weapon with all his might, nearly throwing himself over the side of the boat also as he did so.

Legolas stepped up next to the Dwarf as the axe spiraled toward its victim, and Gimli silently willed the weapon to fly far enough. The intended Orc screeched suddenly as the axe's blade buried itself into the creature's back; it staggered, trying to reach around and pull out the object which had struck it, but after only a moment fell to its knees and then dropped flat, unmoving.

Gimli looked up to Legolas, grinning beneath his beard despite himself. The Elf was still staring out at the felled Orc, and Gimli thought that for once his friend seemed truly surprised. The Dwarf cleared his throat loudly, hooking the fingers of his free hand into his belt. "Well now," he boasted, "it seems I am one ahead of you again, Master Elf."

Legolas looked down to Gimli briefly, then quickly pulled a third arrow from his quiver, notching it with uncanny speed. But the Dwarf was not about to let the Elf get away with another free shot. He watched Legolas take aim, and then, just a hair's breadth before the Elf released the arrow, Gimli reached out with his remaining throwing axe and gently tapped the lower end of the bow.

The arrow shot from the twine prematurely, curving wildly left as it did so and sailing harmlessly over the heads of their enemies until it skidded to a halt in the dirt some two hundred yards away.

Legolas snapped his head around to glare at the Dwarf, but Gimli was already looking outward toward the battle, his face a mask of innocence.

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf looked to the Elf, feigning surprise, but by then the boat had been successfully docked and the gangplank thumped heavily onto the timber of the pier. Gimli brushed passed Legolas, ignoring the Elf's sour expression, and followed Aragorn down to the shore. Legolas followed the Dwarf shortly, and as the company of Dûnedain disembarked their ships a rear regiment of Orcs turned to face them.

Gimli swept his eyes over the approaching enemies, swiftly evaluating their weapons and armor and deciding which attacks would best suit this situation. He glanced sideways to the Elf that walked beside him, then nodded to himself in satisfaction as he noticed the sudden coldness in Legolas' blue eyes.

He would not have to worry about his friend in this battle. If Legolas still harbored fears for Laimea's safety, he had put them away in some far part of his mind; the Elf's face now showed only the deadly intent and calm determination of a hunter.

Gimli hooked his remaining throwing axe on his belt, reaching back for his two-handed battle-axe. "There is plenty for the both of us," he told Legolas as all three members of the former Fellowship broke into a trot. "May the best Dwarf win!"

* * *

The monstrous row of _mûmakil_ and ragged lines of Rohirrim rushed to meet each other, but as the gap between them closed many of the horses suddenly balked and swerved away, their eyes rolling and nostrils flaring in fear. Laimea watched the Rohirrim fight to control their mounts, but just as she had turned her head Morsul also decided the _mûmakil_ were too large for him, and he sat back on his haunches abruptly, skidding to a sudden halt. Laimea's momentum carried her forward over his neck, and although she gripped his mane in a desperate attempt to balance herself, it was too late. She tossed her drawn sword aside as she felt herself falling, and then she hit the ground with a spine-jarring thud. She lay still for a second, staring up at the sky, fighting to get her breath back, but the vibrations that shook the earth beneath her at last persuaded her to roll painfully to her knees. She reached for her sword, looking around wildly for Morsul, but the stallion was nowhere to be found, and she cursed the timing of his rebelliousness. She coughed in the dust, at last making herself stand, and winced at the throbbing in her left hip. 

A trumpeting call from one of the_ mûmakil_ blasted from just ahead, making Laimea's ears ring. She watched the Rohirrim scatter around the legs of the giant beasts, but very few were still left on their horses. Most were like her: horseless, alone, with only their swords and spears to use against these impossibly large foes. But even those men were charging, yelling incomprehensible battle cries as they vanished into the rising dust. Laimea wanted to run after them, but her feet seemed rooted to the spot in which she stood. She was frozen, unable to move as she watched the _mûmakil_ approach, as the Orcs and Southrons passed by all around her, aiming for the shelter offered by the _mûmakil_'s bulk.

A mighty cry behind her caused Laimea to whirl around, only to come face to face with an Easterling. The helmet half hid the man's dark-skinned face, but his black eyes were bright with fury as he lifted his bronzed blade. Laimea's parry was late and clumsy and the Easterling's heavy scimitar sunk into her right pauldron. Luckily her hauberk saved her skin from being cut, although the pain that shocked down her arm told Laimea she would have a very nasty bruise. She barely recovered in time to throw off the Easterling's next strike, but then the man's gaze lifted to look over her head, and his eyes widened. He broke off his attack and fled, and Laimea stiffly turned her head to look over her shoulder, knowing what she would see before she saw it.

A _mûmak_ approached fast, already nearly upon her. She stared up at it, her mouth falling open as its shadow dropped over her. It lifted its trunk high in the air, and far above on its back she could see the handler, painted in designs of red, black, and white much like his mount. She thought she saw the man grin down at her; one of the _mûmak_'s front legs crashed into the ground barely two feet from her, so close she could see its toenails in painful clarity. And then its powerful head swung to the side, sweeping away anything in its path, and Laimea could only gape as a great number of wooden spikes came rushing in her direction.

* * *

The enemy had closed in now, and Legolas had abandoned his bow for his knives. The twin blades moved continuously and Legolas' eyes focused only on his foes. One by one he cut them down: methodically, instinctively, almost without thinking. His moves were fluid, quick, often killing on the first blow. Blood coated his once-shining blades, running in rivulets down their curved lengths and dripping from the ends of the pearlescent hafts. Legolas ignored his blood-slick palms. Even the constant score calling of his friend Gimli seemed faint and far away. The Elf's concentration was at its highest, every sense at its fullest alert. He ducked and dodged the swords, knives, and fists that were thrown at him, every fiber of his being working to keep him alive and unscathed. 

He moved slowly up the field of the Pelennor, working his way ever nearer to the walls of the city, following the vague shape of Aragorn ahead of him and always keeping Gimli somewhere in his peripheral vision. The men of the Dûnedain fought all around him, impressively holding their own against the overwhelming odds.

"Twenty-five, twenty-six…" Gimli bellowed out with each sweep of his axe.

Legolas risked a glance to the east, where a long line of _mûmakil_ were trotting down upon the Rohirrim and scattered Gondorian soldiers. High in the sky a Nazgúl soared, shrieking and diving, scooping up both horses and men in its claws and carrying them high into the air before letting them drop to their deaths. He frowned heavily. The _mûmakil_ would be a problem; the Nazgúl was out of his reach.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…" Gimli continued.

Legolas stuck his knives through an Orc just before Gimli's axe could deliver the fatal blow and grinned at his friend as he withdrew the blades from the gurgling creature's throat. "Thirty-one," he said easily, watching the Orc drop. Gimli's eyes widened and the Dwarf gave a great cry as he launched himself into a nearby group of Orcs, swinging his axe mightily. Legolas shook his head in wonder, turning around to make his way toward the _mûmakil_. Those beasts were his first worry… he saw one suddenly swerve to its left, mouth open and trunk curled as if in pain, but then he saw the figure dangling from the beast's left ear… it appeared to be the driver, with a spear driven through his chest.

Legolas watched as the guideless animal, in a rage of pain, smashed into a nearby _mûmak_, causing them both to fall to the ground with a thunderous crash. The platforms upon their backs splintered and cracked, and the Haradrim within them were thrown to the ground or crushed between the two massive bodies. One of the _mûmakil_ thrashed briefly and then was still, the other struggled to get to its feet again, but from the looks of it at least one of the creature's legs had been broken. But now Legolas had an idea….

He slit the throat of an approaching Orc and stabbed a Southron through the heart, clearing his path ahead for some distance. He wiped his knives semi-clean against the flattened grass at his feet and then sheathed them, swiped his bloody hands against his pants, and brought out his bow. He pulled two arrows from his quiver, notching them swiftly and taking aim. He tracked the movement of the nearest _mûmak_ until he was satisfied with his shot, then released the twine.

The arrows whizzed through the air, high over the heads of the foot soldiers on the fields, and sunk deep into the eye of the targeted beast. The animal shrieked, stopping its forward motion immediately and shaking its head frantically. The trunk rose to grasp at its injured eye, and then it reared onto its hind legs, bellowing angrily. Several Haradrim fell from their perches on the platform and the handler desperately tried to regain control. But the _mûmak_ paid no heed to the commands from the driver. It staggered on its rear legs for a moment, then came heavily back down to all fours. And then, all at once, it collapsed in a heap, spilling more Haradrim from its back.

Legolas glanced around him, and seeing that his near surroundings were still clear of foes, pulled two more arrows from his quiver, readying the volley for a second_ mûmak_. But then he stopped, the bow and arrows falling to his side. His heartbeat seemed to become painfully slow as he looked out over the distance, his sharp eyes following the movements of a great black horse galloping among the ranks of enemy soldiers. But this horse did not belong to any enemy. No… Legolas would have recognized that stallion anywhere.

The ground rocked beneath him, his breath coming in short, hard gasps.

That was Morsul… and though he wore a bridle, he was riderless.

The Elf took off in the direction of the horse, only one thought on his mind: if Laimea was on this battlefield, he was going to find her.

* * *

Laimea threw herself to the ground at the last second and the wooden spikes hurtled over her head. She felt the longest one graze her back, the point of it snagging her cloak. She cried out as she was lifted bodily into the air, the ground zooming away beneath her, but then her cloak tore and all at once the ground was rushing up to meet her again. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for impact, feeling her stomach lurch into her throat as she freefell. 

She landed with a grunt, the air once again knocked from her body, white flashing across her vision. She grimaced and gasped, struggling to get her breath back. There were feet running all around her, but they paid her no attention. _They think I'm dead_, she thought dimly, and she was glad to be left alone for a moment. But she knew she had to get up or risk being trampled by both soldiers and _mûmakil_. She shoved herself onto her knees, her whole body feeling sore, and with a start realized she did not have her sword. She looked around anxiously, scouring the churned up dirt and mounds of dead bodies for some sign of Nimrunya. She looked along the ground beneath her airborne path, and then she saw it. A faint glimmering white lying against the side of a dead Orc. She limped as quickly as she could in its direction, her heart pounding in her head, her ears straining to hear any sound of an approaching enemy above the general din of battle.

An Easterling not far away also saw Nimrunya and was running toward it, apparently fascinated by such a blade. He reached the sword first, bending down to pick it up, holding it out in the cloudy light to examine it. Laimea gritted her teeth. No such scum would have her sword… she pulled the Rohirrim dagger from her sash, and grabbing it by the blood-crusted blade, she launched it at the Easterling soldier.

The knife hit its mark, embedding itself in the man's scarved throat. He dropped Nimrunya, staggering backwards in surprise, his hands reaching up to grasp the knife handle. He pulled the blade free and looked at it in disbelief as the blood quickly darkened the material of his scarf. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the knife, until at last he crumpled to the ground.

Laimea moved forward immediately, reaching down to snatch the knife from the man's dead fingers. She wiped both sides of the blade on her skirt before sticking it back into her sash, and then she picked up Nimrunya, feeling an immense relief wash over her as soon as the familiar weight was in her hand. But just as she had she steadied her grip upon the haft a strong blow hit her in the side from the left, knocking her off her feet and making her cry out as a sharp pain radiated through her ribcage.

She looked up, bewildered, only to see another Easterling soldier standing above her, his dark eyes narrowed. He bit off something in a foreign tongue, and Laimea scrambled to her feet, dismay welling in her chest at the weariness she felt beginning to take hold of her body. She tried to ignore the fatigue in her muscles as she turned to face the soldier, but her reflexes were considerably slowed, and she was not expecting the Easterling's next move.

Instead of raising his sword, he raised his hand, issuing a powerful backhand that struck Laimea across the right cheek. She staggered with the force of the blow and her helmet went careening off her head, somersaulting across the dirt until it came to rest against the body of the Easterling she had just killed. Shocked, she touched her throbbing cheek gingerly with her fingers. But the Easterling did not wait for her to recover. He reached forward and caught a fistful of her braid, pulling her back against his body and lifting his sword to press against her neck.

Laimea froze, feeling her heartbeat in her throat; the blood thundering passed her ears. She did not dare swallow, but her breathing came in short, shallow gasps, and she looked up wide-eyed into the man's leering face. He spat out more foreign words, and then a cruel chuckle shook his chest. Laimea felt the blade against her neck shift and she squeezed her eyes shut, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts as she waited for inevitable death.

There was a short whistling sound and a sort of wet thwack, and Laimea felt the body behind her jerk spasmodically. The sword dropped from her neck, the pressure on her back fell away, and Laimea snapped her eyes open, ducking away from the Easterling. She brought up her sword hastily, preparing to fight, but then realized the man was on the ground… and already dead. A green-feathered arrow protruded from the space between his eyes. She stared at the sight, but it was not the dark trickle of blood dripping down the Easterling's temple that held her eye… it was the arrow.

Laimea suddenly felt as if her chest had collapsed; she could not seem to breathe deeply enough to slow the rapid pounding of her heart. For a moment she felt faint, but then she regained control of herself and forcefully dragged her eyes away from the end of the arrow. Her gaze drifted over the fighting and death that surrounded her, moving slowly despite the anxiety that twisted her insides. She was both anticipating and dreading finding the person she looked for, and she could not decide whether she hoped to see him or not.

But then… she saw him.

Standing at least thirty yards distant to her left, bow in hand and face splattered by black Orc blood, was Legolas.

Laimea met his hard blue stare and felt her breath still in her chest. He stood rigidly, unmoving as the enemies between them crisscrossed their line of vision, periodically cutting them off from one other. His golden hair was like a beacon of light amid the darkness and Laimea struggled to keep him within her sight, but she was unsure of what else she should do. He did not look pleased to see her, but then she knew he had no reason to be pleased. She had lied to him and left him confused with that foreign goodbye, and now she was sure he couldn't be happy that she was here fighting… that he had had to save her life…

But that hadn't been the first time he had saved her life. Abruptly Laimea remembered their journey in the White Mountains. How Legolas had pulled her from the river and cared for her by the fire, how he had kept her warm during the bitterly cold nights, how he had killed that Uruk just before it strangled her to death… And then all the rest of those memories came flooding back: the songs he sang to soothe her to sleep, the cloak he had let her borrow when it had gotten so cold, his worry for her in the mountain pass when they had first met up with Aragorn and Gimli, the feel of his body against her back, the look in his eyes when she had said goodbye, the touch of his fingers upon her face…

Laimea jerked herself out of such thoughts, but all at once an acute guilt stabbed into her insides, and she wanted nothing more than to run up to Legolas right at that moment and tell him how sorry she was for ever telling him to leave.

She looked at him from across the battlefield, but his expression did not change. Her attention was drawn over Legolas' shoulder as she saw Morsul, galloping up behind the Elf and then passing him, heading straight in her direction.

Laimea took her eyes off of Legolas, calling for the stallion, and this time the horse obeyed, slowing to a canter as he passed her so that she could catch a hold of his mane and swing up onto his back. Laimea grabbed the loose reins and situated herself, then turned Morsul around to face Legolas… but the Elf was no longer there.

She frowned, turning in all directions, but Legolas had completely disappeared, and Laimea felt her heart sink into her stomach.

* * *

"Thirty-five!" Gimli shouted triumphantly, loudly enough to be sure Legolas would hear. But when the Dwarf looked up from his latest kill to gloat, the Elf was nowhere to be found. Gimli frowned, straightening his shoulders and looking all around him. The surrounding grounds had been nearly cleared of foes and he could see ahead for some distance. Aragorn was there, slaughtering the last remaining Orcs in the area… and Elladan and Elrohir, looking for more enemies… and many of the Dûnedain, but the blonde Elf had gone missing. Gimli growled to himself, knowing Legolas had probably gone off to find bigger and better targets to shoot behind the Dwarf's back. 

Gimli sighed heavily and began making his way over to Aragorn, grumbling all the while. But he was brought to a premature halt by the strange behavior of Elladan and Elrohir, who had both stopped searching out foes and were instead standing shoulder to shoulder, peering off into the distance and speaking to one another in low voices. One of them pointed to something, the other nodded in understanding.

Gimli stood by their side, looking in the direction in which they pointed but unable to see anything specific in the far mass of enemy soldiers because of his short height. He scowled, but his curiosity would not let him remain silent. "What is it?" he demanded of them. "What is so captivating that it would take your attention from the _battle_ that surrounds us?"

Elladan looked down at the Dwarf, lifting one dark eyebrow over his gray eye. "A rider, Gimli," the Elf answered, his voice an odd mix of unease and awe that made Gimli feel instantly on edge. "There is a rider ahead on a black horse, but they wear the armor of a passed Age…" Elladan lifted his eyes once more to the horizon, where Gimli supposed this rider was currently fighting. "It closely resembles the armor of our father…"

Gimli blinked. "Your father…" he murmured, and then, louder, "You mean… it is Elvish?"

Elladan nodded. "Yes, Gimli. Elvish."

The Dwarf frowned heavily. He knew without doubt that Legolas did not wear armor. And the only other two Elves he knew of were standing right in front of him. Who then could this rider be? Well, _he _did not have time to sit about wondering like the twins… he had a wager to win.

With that Gimli set off at a trot toward the nearest bunch of enemies, determined to keep up his count even if Legolas wasn't around to see it.

* * *

The realization of how close she had come to death remained foremost in Laimea's mind long after she had left the body of that Easterling behind. But as the sun began to slip behind the mountains in the west, her confidence gradually returned. She was most comfortable while riding, and the fighting techniques she had learned as an errand rider were all dependent upon the height advantage of a horse. Now that she was mounted again, Laimea had little trouble avoiding or felling her enemies. She made sure to stay far away from the few _mûmakil_ still left alive, and Morsul therefore continued to listen to her commands. 

She rode back and forth across the battlefield, slaughtering foes and helping friends wherever they needed it. Several times she ran down a free-roaming horse and brought it back to a horseless Rohirrim, much to the rider's relief. It seemed, although she hardly dared to think it, that the forces of Gondor, Rohan, and Aragorn's small army were at last gaining the upper hand. All around her now she saw Orcs, Southrons, and Easterlings fleeing to the south and east. The only ones who seemed not to be running were the Haradrim from the backs of the_ mûmakil_, but they had arrived late to the battle and their fury had not yet been spent.

The fields were slowly emptying, leaving only the dead and wounded behind in a great mass of blood and broken banners. Laimea constantly scanned the area for a glimpse of Legolas, but she had not seen him since she had been reunited with Morsul. The longer she looked for him and did not find him the more her insides seemed to twist into knots… what if he was among the thousands of bodies that now littered the grasses of the Pelennor? And she would have never gotten to tell him…

A distant _mûmak_'s war harness suddenly tilted crazily upon the creature's sloped back, and Laimea watched in fascination as the whole contraption slowly slid sideways until it completely fell off, smashing to the ground in a jumble of canvas, bamboo, and bodies. She raised her eyebrows, thinking that perhaps the Haradrim had been in too much of a hurry when they had dressed up that _mûmak_. But then she spotted something still standing on the rampaging animal's back: a very tiny figure with blond hair and a green cloak.

Laimea's mouth fell open. _Legolas! What is he…?_ But she had her answer in the next moment, for the _mûmak_ gave an angry cry and its steps faltered. It seemed the creature's legs just stopped working; it crashed forward on its face in a great cloud of dust, then moved no more. Laimea sat staring at the fallen beast for another long moment, then kicked Morsul into a gallop, determined to find Legolas while she still knew where he was.

But the sight that met her eyes when she arrived at the side of the fallen _mûmak_ was not pleasant. At least thirty Haradrim - some survivors from the animal Legolas had just killed and others from previously killed _mûmakil_ – surrounded the Elf, each clamoring to get at him, their expressions vicious and enraged. Perhaps they had realized that Legolas was the one responsible for killing most of their mounts, for their attention seemed to be focused solely on him.

Gimli stood at the outskirts of the mob, hacking at the outermost Haradrim and felling them quite steadily, but nevertheless, he was not going to reach Legolas any time soon.

The Elf himself did not seem fully aware of his situation. His face remained devoid of fear or anxiety. His eyes were bright and cold, his mouth a grim line of determination as he ceaselessly worked his knives, just barely staying ahead of his enemies.

A lump formed in Laimea's throat and she couldn't swallow it down. Morsul pranced and pawed in place, shaking his head, disturbed at the level of fear and worry that radiated from his rider. He neighed, half-rearing, and Laimea absently stroked his neck, trying to calm him. The stallion tried to bolt in the direction of the Haradrim but Laimea pulled him up short. Morsul chewed the bit and gave a low grunt, clearly displaying his displeasure at being held back.

Laimea eyed the serrated blades of the Haradrim, biting her lip. There were too many of them. Legolas might hold them off for a while yet, but he couldn't hold them off forever. Gimli was making a fair sized dent in their numbers, but even the Dwarf's reckless slaughter would not be enough to save Legolas.

Morsul whinnied shrilly, tossing his head.

Yes… she knew what the horse wanted to do. It was what the stallion had been trained for, but he had never charged such a close group of enemies before. And their blades… the Haradrim would be quick to strike, and one well-aimed slash would be all that was needed to bring Morsul down.

Laimea chewed her lip more vigorously.

Morsul exhaled a great snort through his noise, then grunted again, and she could feel him tensing beneath her. Whether or not she wanted him to, the stallion was going to attack. The Haradrim were closing in on Legolas, and the Elf was having a harder and harder time ducking the blades that kept sailing for his head.

Laimea made up her mind. She pulled Morsul around and took him back in a wide circle so that he would have plenty of time to gain speed. That was the most important thing in this charge… they would have to be fast enough that the Haradrim would not have time to react. Laimea gritted her teeth, wishing not for the first time in this battle that Morsul had armor. But it was too late for that. They would have to make this work as they were.

She took a deep breath; Morsul was positively shaking beneath her, hardly keeping himself in good behavior long enough to be released. Laimea sheathed her sword, grabbing hold of Morsul's mane with both hands. She would not have time to fight the Haradrim herself. This would have to be a straight run-through… just long enough to get Legolas…

Laimea loosed the reins and the stallion shot off so fast she nearly got whiplash, but she quickly regained her seat and squinted through the wind to the thick circle of enemies ahead. The Haradrim swiftly came closer and closer… Laimea was sure they would hear Morsul's drumming hoofbeats… that was all she could hear in her ears now, echoing her own thundering heart. She waited until Morsul was nearly upon the cluster of enemies, and then shouted at the top of her lungs, "_Legolas_!"

He spun around to face her; she saw his eyes widen in surprise, but then the galloping stallion collided full speed into the circle of Haradrim soldiers. Laimea braced herself for the impact, and she could feel the thuds of bodies vibrate through Morsul's body as he ploughed a way through the throng to where Legolas still fought. They reached the center of the mob still at a canter, but Laimea did not allow Morsul to slow any farther. She urged him onward, and as he passed by Legolas the Elf reached up and caught Laimea's outstretched arm, easily swinging himself up to sit behind her.

Morsul lashed out with his hind legs suddenly, his large hooves crushing the ribs and face of two Haradrim soldiers that had been closing in upon his flank, and then the stallion continued on through the horde, still moving quickly, his ears pinned and teeth bared in warning to any other person who might get in his way. He bit and kicked several more of the painted southern men before finally breaking out into the clear on the other side.

Laimea kept her heels steadily pressed into Morsul's ribs and the stallion stretched out into a gallop again, carrying both his master and Legolas safely away from the Haradrim. Laimea released her breath in a rush of air, relief coursing over her in numbing waves. They had made it out alive. She abruptly became aware of the presence sitting behind her, the familiar smell, the comforting snap of the Galadhrim bow's twine….

She brought Morsul around in another circle so that they faced the Haradrim once more. The group was breaking up now, running in the direction Morsul had fled, shouting in harsh, angry voices. The bow behind her worked furiously, firing arrows with impossible speed. Laimea did not flinch as the projectiles whizzed by only inches from her face, but watched with interest as the Haradrim were silenced one by one, until none of them remained.

She pulled Morsul to a halt then, and the stallion snorted and lowered his head, breathing heavily. Laimea let him rest, twisting on his back to look over her shoulder at Legolas. The Elf was sitting quietly; the only sign of his recent physical struggle was the swift rising and falling of his chest. She met his gaze again, so much closer this time, and felt all the words she had wanted to say melt away. His eyes softened slightly, but there was still a distance in their depths that made Laimea's heart ache. He gave her a nod, then replaced his bow in its sheath and slid off of Morsul's back. He hesitated there, but then turned away and made to leave.

"Legolas," Laimea blurted, unable to bear the thought of him walking away like this.

He turned around to face her again, but his expression was blank. There was no anticipation for what she might say, no expectation, no curiosity, no more anger. Just an impassive face with unreadable eyes, no matter how hard Laimea searched them. And she could not bring herself to say the words in her heart when the person they were meant for was not even really there in front of her.

A silence stretched between them and at last Legolas opened his mouth. But then he hesitated and shook his head, dropping his eyes from Laimea's. "I must go to Gimli's aid," he muttered hoarsely, and with that he turned on his heel and jogged off toward the Dwarf.

Laimea watched him go, wanting to call out to him again but knowing it would do no good. She ground her teeth, refusing the sting of tears, and made sure that Legolas would be able to handle the few Haradrim and Orcs left fighting with Gimli before she turned Morsul in the opposite direction and trotted away.

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	15. Aftermath

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**A/N:** You all know the drill: I'm REALLY sorry this chapter took so long, and it's a rather puny chapter at that, so I really do apologize. I have more homework this semester than ever, but it is my last semester at school, so I think that's good news. Again I want to say thank you all for hanging in there, and I hope that however long it takes to finish this fic, you find the wait worthwhile! Thanks also to my betas for all your hard work!

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Chapter Fifteen: Aftermath**

Laimea sat on one of the low beds in the Healing House, propped up by several pillows, her bandaged left arm resting gently across her lap. She sat in the shadows of a far corner, watching people move through the flickering light of lanterns and torches before her with a numb sense of detachment. She had shed the Elvish armor; it now lay dim and blood-splattered on the floor next to her bed, but there were few who would even now approach her.

Anya had tended Laimea's wounds silently, looking thinner and frailer than Laimea had ever seen her, the elderly face drawn and pale… so very pale. Laimea had wanted to speak to her foster mother, to tell the woman that it was over now, that everything was all right, that these wounds would heal. But her voice had failed her. As soon as Laimea had sunk down onto the bed it seemed all the remaining strength drained from her body, leaving her an exhausted shell of a being, barely able to hold up her head.

Now Anya had gone off again, busy with the other hurt and wounded filing into the Healing House, and Laimea was left alone. But she did not mind. She did not mind that the men who saw her sitting there peered at her with wary, guarded looks. Some of them seemed fearful, others tossed her scornful glares, but through it all Laimea's expression did not change. She met their eyes impassively, too weary to be angry or resentful. She had done her part. She had avenged Baranor. She had survived. That was all that mattered.

A sharp pain suddenly threaded up her arm and Laimea sucked in a breath through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. Her bruised ribs protested against the deep breath and Laimea suppressed a moan. She hurt all over; it felt as if she had been trampled by a herd of _mûmakil_. But then, she nearly _had_ been trampled by a herd of _mûmaki_l…

Anya had had to stitch the cut on her left arm; if not for the strength of the Elvish mail, Laimea had no doubt she would have lost the limb altogether. She grimaced at the thought, glancing down to the armor, her eyes lingering on the cut the Southron's sword had made in the right pauldron. Yes, she had survived, but barely. And not without help.

_Legolas._

Laimea shut her eyes again, shuddering as she remembered the cold feel of the Easterling's blade against her neck. The Elf had saved her life. Again. But the look on his face… the blankness in his eyes had caused a heavy feeling of dread to settle in the pit of Laimea's stomach, a feeling which had not lessened with the passage of time. It was deep night now – she had watched the light fade from the sky through the nearest window – and yet she had neither seen nor heard anything of Legolas, nor of Aragorn or Gimli. It was as if seeing them on the battlefield had all been a dream, a figment of her desperate imagination. Yet she knew they had to have been real…Legolas _had _saved her…and she had saved him…the closeness of his presence as he sat behind her on Morsul and the feel of his strong grip on her arm as she had pulled him from within the Haradrim mob was still vivid in her mind.

No…they were here, somewhere. _He_ was here. Somewhere in the City. Even now as she lay all alone in the bustle of the Healing House, he was out there somewhere. She wondered what he was doing; what he was thinking. Did he know she was here? Would he come and see her? Did he even care about her anymore?

_He saved your life_, a voice spoke up within her mind, but Laimea paid little attention to the feeble excuse. _As any soldier of Gondor or Rohan would have done, had they seen me in trouble_, she argued back. _This was the third time he had to come to my rescue, and yet I saw none of the same concern that had been in his eyes the first two times._

A heavy depression settled over Laimea at the thought. Ever since Legolas had last left her she had been dwelling on her past feelings toward the Elves, considering her new-found fondness toward the Prince of Mirkwood. She had at last, after so many long years, nearly come to terms with her Elvish heritage, nearly forgiven her father for abandoning her, nearly forgotten the hurts that race of immortal beings had caused her.

And all because of Legolas. Since he had come into her life she had again started to remember how much she had loved the Elves. He filled the emptiness within her; replaced the part of her she had left behind when she had left the trees of Lothlorien. But she had been so terrified…so terrified of the memories he brought to life, the new emotions he stirred within her, the possibility that she might forgive the Elves - that she had driven him off. She had felt, at the time, that it was much safer to stay away from him, to forget him, to continue living her life in Gondor as she had for so many years now.

But as soon as she had acted on that decision she had regretted it. Legolas' absence from her the past few days had made the truth glaringly obvious, and though at first she had been reluctant to accept it, Laimea had eventually realized she could no longer fight it. She had grown to love Legolas. She needed him.

And then he had come. Arriving with Aragorn just when she had thought all hope was lost, he came. She had been so relieved, so happy. Finally she would be able to see him again, to talk to him. To tell him all the things that had been mounting in her head and heart over the past few days, to ask his forgiveness.

But their meeting had not been at all what she had expected. She had not planned on meeting him on the battlefield, but even if she had, she would have thought he'd have shown more of a reaction. Shock…anger…sadness…something other than what she had seen. His eyes had been sharp, but not with anger. Not with excitement. Not with scorn like so many of the Gondorian soldiers. His expression had been almost… disappointed. Disappointed at seeing her? At seeing her on the battlefield, or at seeing her at all? She didn't know, but his lack of enthusiasm had hurt Laimea more deeply than all of the soldiers' taunting put together. She would have preferred him to fly into a rage. But instead he had just walked away. So easily.

_I must go to Gimli's aid._

His words still haunted her. Not because of what he had said, but how he had said it. His voice had been so subdued, so hollow, that it made her shudder every time she thought about it. It seemed that after all she had gone through since he had last left, after all the guilt she had suffered in the meantime, after all her eagerness to make an apology to him, she might never get the chance. Worse, even if she did get the chance, Laimea was no longer certain she would be forgiven. And that was the most torturous thought of all.

Laimea felt the familiar sting of tears and swallowed hard, trying her hardest to refuse them. She did not want to cry here, in front of all these people. She did not want to give them anything else to talk about. She tried to clear her mind of everything, to concentrate only on slow, even breathing.

It was hard. When she managed to push away the thoughts of Legolas, thoughts of Aragorn or Gimli would take their place. And when she succeeded in shutting off her mind to those, unwanted memories of the recent battle would spring up suddenly and without warning, forcing her to relive the goriest and most horrible moments of the fight over and over again. She saw the wooden spikes of the _mûmak_'s tusk armor rushing at her, the glassy stare of Ceorl the Rohirrim soldier whom she had met at Helm's Deep, the fierce face of the Southron who had nearly taken off her left arm, the blood soaking the neck scarf of the Easterling she had killed with Ceorl's dagger….

Laimea gritted her teeth, clenching her right hand into a fist. _Go away_, she told the images desperately. _Just go away, just let me sleep…._ But the only way it seemed she could calm her mind was to think of lying next to Legolas at their camp in the White Mountains, which brought back again all of Laimea's depression and frustration, for she could not bear to think of such a peaceful, happy time when she was locked in the unpleasantness of the present.

"Lady Laimea of Gondor, we are told," said a voice out of nowhere, and Laimea snapped her eyes open immediately, swallowing back her cry of surprise. She stared up into the calm gray eyes of a tall, slender, dark-haired man, but one swift glance at his armor told Laimea he was not of Men at all, but was, in fact, an Elf. Next to him stood another dark-haired Elf, and with a start Laimea realized they must be twins, for they looked exactly the same.

She gawked, forgetting herself. She had never seen Elf twins. And she had not seen any other Elf save Legolas since she had left Lothlorien. What a pair of Elves could have been doing _here_, in Gondor, in the Healing House, looking at _her_, she could not guess. When they had arrived and why was another mystery, though from the condition of their armor she took that they had had some part in the battle fought the previous day. Only their faces were clear of the blood splatter and dust that decorated the rest of their bodies.

"I am Elrohir," said the nearest one, giving a low bow, "and this is my brother Elladan. We are sons of Elrond, Lord of Imladis."

Laimea gave the two an absentminded nod in return, still staring. Now that they mentioned their father, she easily recognized their resemblance to him. She had only met Lord Elrond twice, and both times when she had been very young, but she would never forget him. He had been kind, but firm… a gentle personality that still commanded a great deal of respect and wielded a great deal of wisdom. His sons did not quite have the noble air of their father about them, but Laimea sensed much of the same wisdom within them, and they gazed at her with the same calm, sea-gray eyes.

She opened her mouth, a dozen questions springing to her mind all at once, but in the confusion of her curiosity and surprise, all coherent words were lost to her.

Elrohir filled the silence for her. "While fighting on the Pelannor my brother and I saw a rider wearing the armor of a passed Age… armor of Elvish design." He nodded toward Laimea's cuirass and helmet on the floor. "A most unusual sight to behold here, for we were not aware there were any other Elves come to fight this war besides ourselves and the Prince of Mirkwood. We were curious to find out just whom this rider might be. And our search has led us to you, Laimea of Gondor, although I fear the mystery still remains. A woman of Gondor possessing such armor is strange, but then to discover that woman was also the one wearing it in battle…"

He trailed off, but Laimea had stopped listening at the point where they had mentioned Legolas. Her eyes flicked briefly around the Healing House, automatically searching for the blond-headed Elf, thinking that maybe he had come with these two after all, but the flare of hope that had risen in her chest died again as she found no trace of him. She forced herself to look at the two Elves before her again, but now her heart beat so hard behind her ribs she found she could hardly speak. "You know of Legolas?" she asked breathlessly, unable to help herself. "Tell me, did he survive the battle? Is he all right? Where is he now?"

The twins exchanged a glance at her barrage of questions, and Laimea felt her face grow hot. She sank back into the pillows, her eyes dropping down to her hands in her lap in embarrassment. Here she was making a fool of herself again, acting like an impatient, infatuated child, and she didn't even know these two….

"The Prince is quite well, my lady," Elladan answered her, the confusion obvious in his tone. "He is a skilled warrior and managed to escape this fight uninjured." Elladan looked to his brother, than back to Laimea. "We… were not aware you were familiar with Legolas?"

Laimea's blush burned ever hotter on her cheeks. She nodded warily, not meeting their eyes, and explained. "He… escorted me through the White Mountains… on my way back from delivering a message to King Theoden at Helm's Deep. That is how I came to know him." _And to love him_, she added to herself. But the twins did not need to know of that.

"We see," commented Elrohir, and Laimea wondered if they always spoke for each other. "Perhaps you acquired this armor through him, then? His grandfather Oropher did fight alongside our father in the great Battle of Dagorlad."

Elladan nodded in agreement with his brother, and Laimea remembered her far too realistic dream about that very fight…a cold shiver ran up her spine. Legolas' grandfather had fought with her father, with these two's father…they were all children of great warriors….

"No," Laimea whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. But then she hesitated. Did she dare admit the truth to these brothers? She did not know them, did not know their true purpose here. But then, what would be the use in hiding her inheritance from them? Surely they would not care one way or another? "It was my father's armor," she croaked at last. "He left it to me when he…" Laimea stopped, finding she could not seem to finish the sentence. She swallowed hard, trying to force the words passed the sudden lump in her throat. "When he…when he _sailed_." She spat the word angrily, then lifted her eyes defiantly to meet the brothers'.

Their expressions morphed instantly into ones of disbelief, then dawning realization, and Elladan's eyes widened. "Laimiel," he breathed, astonishment in his voice. "Laimiel! Daughter of Arminas, is it not you?"

Laimea felt the room begin to spin, the bed melting away beneath her. Impossible. They could not have known – she had never met them as a child…. She felt choked, almost sick, and it was all she could do to strangle out her next question. "How – how did you know…?" Her voice trembled, coming from far away. A strange buzzing had started in her ears, trying to drown out Elrohir's answer.

"Our father still talks of you, from time to time," the Elf said, his tone tinged with the same excitement that had previously taken over his brother. "And of your parents. For even as ill-fated as their pairing turned out to be, there was no doubt about the love they had for one another."

The vicious sting of tears came suddenly, pressing solidly against the backs of Laimea's eyes, and she knew this time she would not be able to hold them back. She dropped her gaze from Elrohir's abruptly, wishing all at once that these twins had not come to see her. She had thought she would be able to talk about her father, but this mention of her mother as well - about her parents together, about a time so long ago when all of them were happy - was too much. She was possessed by an overwhelming urge to curl up and cry, and she could not bear to have these two Elves watch her lose control.

"Please leave," she managed to gasp out. "I…I need to rest."

The twins looked at each other again, their eager moods sobering at once, lines of concern creasing their foreheads. "We did not mean to upset you, my lady," Elladan said quietly. "If we would have known…"

"Well you know now," came another voice, and the brothers turned as one toward the new arrival.

Anya stood there, blood-stained hands on her hips, frazzled gray hair in her face, dark eyes fixed with a merciless glare on the two Elven twins. "This poor girl is in no condition to be talking to the likes of you," the woman continued harshly. "It would be wise for you to heed her request and leave. Now."

Elladan and Elrohir stood for a moment, seemingly taken aback by the elderly woman's attitude, but then they both bowed low, the stars on their foreheads glinting in the torchlight. "As you wish," Elladan replied, a soft smile gracing his lips. "But please understand it was not our intention to trouble her. We were simply curious –"

"Curiosity has led many Elves greater than yourselves into ruin," Anya snapped. "I find it is most often an excuse to meddle in other people's lives, and I will not entertain such practices here." She threw an arm out toward the door, pointing the direction with her index finger. "Out. And you needn't bother coming back again."

At this Elrohir drew himself up, straightening his shoulders, and Laimea thought she saw a flash of anger cross the youthful features. "On what authority do you –"

"I am her mother!" Anya hissed, with such ferocity that Elrohir shut his mouth. "That is my authority here, and if you have any decency in that Elven blood of yours you will respect it!"

"Her mother…?" Elladan cast a glance to his brother, but then said nothing more. Perhaps the sons of Elrond had realized this was a battle they did not want to involve themselves in. They bowed to Anya once more, then turned to Laimea.

"Our apologies, my lady, for disturbing you," said Elladan. "And farewell."

Laimea gave a silent nod to them, relieved that they were leaving and yet at the same time regretting it. They had not deserved Anya's callous words, and despite the pain her past brought her, she would have liked – eventually – to have talked to the twins more about her parents… she would have liked to have known what Elrond spoke about when he mentioned them… and what anyone else might say about them….

In the wake of the twins' departure Laimea became acutely aware of the quiet that had fallen over the Healing House; of so many eyes staring in her direction. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, then grimaced as her ribs and pulled shoulder flared in pain. Anya rushed to her side, laying a hand gently over Laimea's injured left arm.

"Are you all right, child?" Anya asked, seeming not to notice all the attention the two visiting Elves had brought her and her daughter.

Laimea nodded weakly. "You should not have been so harsh with them," she whispered, gritting her teeth against the ache that permeated her left hip. The fall from the _mûmak_'s tusk had bruised her there deeply, and it throbbed with even the slightest movement.

"They should have known better than to come in here questioning you so soon," Anya said defensively. "After what you went through in that fight," the woman shook her head, looking over Laimea's battered and bandaged body once more, "I'm surprised you're still alive, child. And I'll not have them strutting in here and worsening your condition with their petty curiosities."

Laimea closed her eyes. She didn't feel like talking anymore – to anyone. She sighed deeply, then opened her eyes and looked over Anya's shoulder to the others in the Healing House. "I just want to be alone, Anya," she said wearily. "I want some peace. I want to sleep."

The older woman's gnarled hand gave Laimea's palm a reassuring squeeze. "Of course, child. I will draw a curtain –"

"No," Laimea spoke up, glancing around again at all the eyes that watched her. "I don't want to stay here. I want to go home. I want my own bed. I'm tired of people staring at me."

Anya looked over her shoulder, finally noticing the unnatural silence that had fallen over the patients and nurses in the Healing House. But the woman hesitated, turning back to Laimea. "Are you sure? It would be better for you here, where I can keep an eye on you…"

But Laimea shook her head. "No. I want to be alone. And I cannot be alone here… not even with a curtain."

Anya was silent for another long moment before she finally nodded. "Very well, then. Come now, I will help you to the house. But you must take the journey slowly; I do not want you worsening any of your injuries."

Laimea nodded silently, then gladly allowed Anya to help her sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to finally be away from the curiosity of both Elves and Men, and her bed at home would be a welcome respite from it.

* * *

Legolas stood at the base of Minas Tirith's outer wall, gazing up at the Tower of Echthelion in the growing light of dawn. A gentle breeze brushed against his face, blowing his hair softly over his shoulders, and he took a deep breath of the fresh air. The stench of the previous day's battle still lay thick over the Pelannor, but this wind coming from the sea was clean, and ever so slowly pushed the lingering smoke and stink northwards from the City.

Legolas' gaze rested on the flag flapping lazily at the top of the Tower; the flag of Dol Amroth. Just hours ago the standard of lord Denethor had hung there, but now, as Legolas and Gimli had learned, Denethor had passed on, and as Faramir was still ill in the Healing House, Aragorn had asked Prince Imrahil to take over leadership of the City. Aragorn had not wished to make his claim to the crown just yet…not so soon after such a fight…not so soon after Denethor's death and Faramir's injury….

The Elf turned his eyes to the tents pitched on the grounds around him, shaking his head. Aragorn had insisted on making his camp outside of the City, yet the man had spent nearly the entire night within the walls of Minas Tirith, making rounds among the wounded and healing their hurts. He had just recently returned to his tent, looking worn and weary, and Legolas had looked upon the man with sympathy. The battle had been won, and yet the Elf knew as well as any other that the war was far from over. Aragorn's duty, crowned king or not, would not end until Sauron fell – or until Sauron conquered all. But those who had pledged their allegiance to Aragorn would not rest until the end, either, and Legolas knew at that moment he would follow the man into death if needed. As would Gimli. As would any of the men that currently slept in the tents pitched in the shadow of the wall.

Legolas sighed and turned to look full south, toward the stretching distance of the Pelannor, toward the sea. Bodies were sprawled across the grass for as far as he could see; broken spears sprouted from the ground like the skeletons of trees, forgotten banners billowed peacefully in the breeze, an echo of the frenzy of death and chaos that had filled the previous day's long hours.

He closed his eyes against the sight, his heart heavy in his chest. So many had been lost. King Theoden and so many of his riders, Halbarad and several other Rangers of the north; an unnumbered many of Gondor's finest men. A wave of guilt passed briefly over the Elf. He wished he had not felt so resentful toward Halbarad at Helm's Deep, when Aragorn had chosen the man to accompany him with the _palantír_. It had been a foolish, childish emotion, and Legolas regretted it. But his long life was not without regrets; it was only another reminder that no matter how long an Elf might live, he still had lessons to learn.

_Laimea._

Another regret. Another lesson. Legolas opened his eyes, then unconsciously narrowed them as he vividly recalled the sight of that Easterling holding a defenseless Laimea against him, preparing to slit her throat. Even the memory of it provoked a powerful surge of anger through the Elf's body. Anger firstly at the Easterling, for daring to lay hands on Laimea in such a way, for daring an attempt to hurt her, to kill her. Anger secondly at Laimea herself, for being foolish and arrogant enough to believe that she had the necessary experience and skill to survive a battle of this magnitude, for endangering herself so recklessly. And anger thirdly at the soldiers of Gondor, at the captains of the army, at any man who had had any part in allowing Laimea to fight on the Pelannor, or who had witnessed her on the field and done nothing to try and return her to the safety of the City.

How could they have been so impetuous? How could they have been so careless with her life? Hadn't _anyone_ tried to stop her?

His hands balled into fists at his sides. After all he had been through since that night he had last seen her… after all his regrets, all his worry, all the distance he had traveled to finally come back to this City, he had arrived only to find his worst fear come true. He had found Laimea on the battlefield. He had found Laimea in danger. It wasn't fair to him. Not after he had spent so much time agonizing about the last words she had spoken to him. Not after he had finally decided that he wanted – _needed_ - to talk to her again, to find out her true feelings for him, to discover the true meaning of her goodbye… if he lost her now, while so many things were yet uncertain and unknown….

Legolas closed his eyes again, trying to slow his rapid breathing. Just the thought of it caused his heart to hammer wildly in his chest. _But you didn't lose her_, he told himself, trying to soothe the panicky flutter in his veins. _You didn't lose her. She is still alive, and this battle is over. She will not fight another battle_. He opened his eyes, staring out resolutely across the Pelennor. _She will not fight another battle as long as I still breathe._

"Legolas!"

The Elf broke out of his thoughts, turning to face the voice of Elladan or Elrohir – which it was he could not be entirely certain – and found the two brothers walking toward him, their jeweled brows winking in the moonlight with their strides. Legolas managed to make his lips smile for them and bowed low in greeting.

They returned his bow as they came to stand next to him and Legolas looked at them expectantly. Elladan's face morphed into a sly smile and Elrohir grinned toothily, and Legolas' expectation turned into suspicion. "What is it?" he asked slowly, unsure of what to expect from these brothers.

"You did not tell us you had an acquaintance here, young Prince," Elrohir said jovially.

Legolas lifted one eyebrow, not following. "An acquaintance?"

"Yes, the young lady known as Laimea," Elladan replied. "We spoke to her just earlier. And she was quite anxious to learn how you faired after the battle."

Legolas felt his back stiffen, his heart stumbling in its rhythm. He tried to reply to Elladan's statement, but felt as if his voice had suddenly been lost. She had spoken to them? When? Where? What had she told them? The thought of anyone else besides Aragorn and Gimli knowing of his feelings for Laimea, or knowing of what she had spoken to him on their last night together, was something Legolas had not prepared himself for. And now faced with that possibility, Legolas found himself uncharacteristically at a complete loss for words.

He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath and scolding himself for acting like such an elfling. "Where… where did you find her?" he asked at last, then found himself holding his breath in anticipation of their answer. All night now he had been debating whether or not to go into the City and look for her. Part of him wanted to find her more than anything, to take her into his arms and ask her all the questions that had been haunting him since he had last left Minas Tirith, to tell her that all was forgiven, that all would be all right now that they were together again. But another part of him fiercely protested such an action. Not only because somewhere in his mind he feared to learn the answers to his questions, but also because she was the one who had left him. She was the one who had lied to him, she was the one who mistrusted his kind, she was the one who had said goodbye. And despite the longing within him that wanted nothing more than to see her and hold her again, his pride demanded that he wait until she came to him first. If she did indeed – dare he think it – _love_ him, as Aragorn had once said, than surely she would seek him out, now that she knew he was in the City?

"We found her in the Healing House," Elladan answered, his face turning grave. "We did not expect to find a woman when we sought out the rider who wore Elvish armor. That was a most unusual discovery."

"She faired surprisingly well for having taken part in such a fight," Elrohir added, nodding sagely.

Legolas scowled, his previous anger returning all at once, and he spun away from the brothers. "Indeed," he growled. "She faired so well she would have died if I hadn't of killed the man preparing to slit her throat." Saying the words aloud only made the anger within him burn hotter, and he clenched his fists so hard it hurt.

The brothers regarded him mildly, then glanced to each other.

"If I recall correctly," Elladan commented gently, "I believe I saw her pull you out of a Haradrim throng just when I thought you would be overwhelmed by their blades. Elrohir and I would have never reached you in time. Your fighting skills are exceptional, Prince Legolas, but if not for her action I am most certain you would not have emerged from this battle alive."

Legolas gritted his teeth. It was true… she had also saved his life during this fight. He knew that, and he had not forgotten it. But that fact did not make the fear he had felt for Laimea during that long day any less real. "That still does not mean she should have been on that battlefield," he said gruffly.

The twins looked at each other again. "Perhaps not," Elrohir conceded. "But it is all in the past now. She has survived this battle… we all have… and that is what we should remember."

Legolas remained silent for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. But he did not turn around or make any other reply. The two brothers waited for another moment, then, after exchanging another glance, bowed to Legolas' back.

"Excuse us, Prince, but we must attend to other business."

Legolas gave them a stiff nod over his shoulder, unwilling to be completely rude, and with that the twins took their leave. The Prince of Mirkwood was left alone again, feeling a mix of anger and shame that only left him more confused.

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	16. A Flame of Hope

**Author's Note:** Well, I told you so. ;) I know you all didn't believe me, but here it is after TWO YEARS... good grief time flies. A sincere, true thanks goes out to all of the amazingly patient readers and fans of this fic out there who never ceased to continuously nudge me and remind me you were still waiting for the continuation of this fic. Really, if you all hadn't of been so kind and considerate and enthusiastic and persistant, I probably would have never gotten around to resuming this. :D But you've all made a huge impact on me, and the rest of this story is for you. It really is. You guys are unbelievable. I can't explain how much I appreciate your understanding of the ridiculous dely, the lack of angry emails over the past few years speaks volumes to your characters. As for those of you who did send angry emails (there were a few)... well, I don't know what to tell you. Except, I told you I would resume this, so THERE. MWUAHAHAHA.

Sorry this is not a very long chapter. The next one will be a bit longer I think, but I am going to try and keep the length down to speed up the posting process. Hopefully I can get one up at least every month. I don't have a beta for this yet, so this chapter is un-proofed. Hope it's not terrible... I have been out of the fandom a loooonnnngggg time. :( If there is anyone out there well-versed in Tolkien's _notes and essays_ I might have a few questions for you. Email me if you know lots and lots about all those LOTR inner workings, pretty please. And, as always, if you spot an error point it out and I will try and get it fixed as soon as possible. I am still easing my way back into this world...

For my sake and yours I hope this chapter is enjoyable! Good luck to us all!  
PS: I highly recommend rereading the previous chapters before launching into this one, if you haven't already, it's easy to forget things in two years time...

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**Chapter Sixteen: A Flame of Hope**

Dawn's light had finally crawled above the permanent gloom that hung over Mordor, bringing a faint orange flush to the white stone of Minas Tirith and softening the gruesomeness of the bodies strewn across the Pelannor with a surreal glow. Within the City walls Legolas could now hear the sounds of people stirring; guards changing, weapons being repaired or sharpened, catapults being reloaded, injured soldiers who were now recovered enough walking about in the cool morning air.

But Legolas himself had not moved since the twins had left him. He remained standing at the edge of Aragorn's camp, looking first toward the tiers of Minas Tirith rising into the morning sun beside him, and then toward the distant sea in the south. Many things had been crowding his mind in the predawn, and despite the hours he had had to contemplate them, he had been unable to come to any decisions, or make any conclusions, and that served only to frustrate him farther.

He still could not make himself enter the City to search for Laimea. Three times he had nearly taken a step in the direction of the shattered Gate, and three times he had stopped himself. As certain as he had been at Helm's Deep about what course of action he would take once he had a chance to see Laimea again, being confronted with her presence so unexpectedly on the battlefield destroyed all of his previously well-laid plans. The call of the gulls was also fresh in his mind, and he could not help thinking that perhaps it would be better if he did not speak to Laimea again. Perhaps it would be better if he did not seek her out, nor allow her to find him again. The far sea had stirred something within him, something that caused him to feel far more restless than what even his natural exploratory nature allowed. He wanted very much, at this moment, to take a ship and sail across those outlying waters, to leave this battle-weary land and all its evil behind him. He had told Aragorn once that he would give up the sea for Laimea, but that had been before he had felt the true calling of the endless waves….

And wasn't that what Laimea had feared the most? Being left alone on the shore while he sailed away across the water? That was what she had been unwilling to risk, why she hadn't allowed herself to trust him when he had promised he would never leave her alone.

Legolas' frown deepened. Had she been right not to trust him? Could he truly promise her he would not sail until after all the years of her life had passed away? A deep guilt pressed upon his heart. He had acted rashly on that night in the City, and perhaps Laimea had been right in reacting how she had. She had acted in wisdom, in an understanding of the sea longing; an understanding Legolas himself was only now realizing. Perhaps he had been wrong to be angry at her sudden goodbye, at her lie. Perhaps _he_ was the one who had lied to _her_.

The Elf sighed heavily, his hands at last unfurling from their constant fists. There were many things at hand that were more important than his jumbled feelings toward Laimea. Yet he could not help feeling that in order to have all his concentration on the battles ahead, he needed to sort this out… he needed to know the truth. He did not want to die without knowing. He did not want to die feeling guilty.

And he did feel guilt. Guilt from being angry with her before, from having been foolish enough to make such a rash promise to her and expecting her to so blindly believe it, from walking away from her on the battlefield when she had been looking at him so desperately.

He winced at the memory. She'd wanted to talk to him; that had been obvious. She wanted him to _say_ something, _she_ wanted to say something, but at the time Legolas had not been able to bring himself to listen to her, or to speak any of the things he had planned on saying. He had been too angry, too hurt, too prideful. He had wanted her to feel the same thing he had felt on the night she had left him. And now he was ashamed of that desire, and of his actions since. A grown Elf should be above such bitterness, such sulking.

Legolas dropped his head, berating himself for his juvenile behavior.

"So here you are!" came Gimli's boisterous voice suddenly, causing Legolas to spin around in surprise.

"I thought you might be trying to busy yourself elsewhere, hoping to hide from me!"

Legolas frowned at his friend, his mind struggling to follow the Dwarf's train of thought. "Hide from you?" he repeated blankly. "Why would I wish to hide from you?"

"To avoid having to follow through on your wager, of course! You did, after all, loose our little bet…"

The Elf crossed his arms. "Is that so? Last I knew my count was two-hundred and fifty-two… and yours was one-hundred and seventy-five."

Gimli bristled at the claim, sputtering for a moment before he could get the words to come out clearly. "The _mumakil_ only count as _one_!"

"But they each carried at least thirty Haradrim upon their backs," Legolas countered easily.

The Dwarf drew himself to his full height, looking up to Legolas with fierce dark eyes. "But you did not kill all those Haradrim individually, did you?" he demanded. "Only those you actually killed with your own arrows or knives can be counted! That was our agreement, and you know it!"

Legolas sighed heavily, uncrossing his arms. Unfortunately Gimli spoke the truth in that regard. "Very well," he relented at last. "Then that brings my count to one-hundred and seventy-four, and yours to one-hundred and seventy-five."

Gimli beamed.

"Hrm," Legolas said, warily eyeing the pipe the Dwarf had stuck in his belt. At the moment the thought of subjecting himself to smoking seemed nowhere near as unbearable as not knowing what Laimea's Dwarfish phrase meant. For a second he was angry at himself for losing the wager. He'd forgotten what he was playing for… but then seeing Laimea on the battlefield had distracted him from many things. The Elf looked back to the walls of Minas Tirith again, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. Laimea was in there, somewhere. She was so close… all he had to do was go and find her, talk to her… he didn't need to win a silly bet to get answers. Legolas felt resolve harden in his chest. No matter what had happened between him and Laimea in the past – no matter what would become of them in the future – there were things that needed to be said _now_, in the present, before another day passed. And if Laimea was in the Healing House…. He swallowed hard, feeling another deep stab of guilt and shame. Despite her relatively healthy appearance last he'd seen her, the twins had spoken as if she were injured. The thought made Legolas feel physically ill.

_Why have I not gone to her already?_ he demanded of himself. _I have wasted enough time standing out here in anger… _

"I am sorry, Gimli," Legolas spoke up at last, still looking into the City. "We will have to continue this another time. There is something I must do at once." And with that he took off for the broken Gate at a trot, leaving the Dwarf standing with his mouth still open in protest.

* * *

Laimea sat with her back against the rough stone wall of the third circle of Minas Tirith, looking up to the outer wall of the Healing House that rose high above her in the fourth circle. The City seemed eerily quiet after the rampaging noise of war; the sound of Morsul's constant snuffling and chomping of the scarce surrounding grass was loud in the morning silence. Laimea's gaze drifted back to the horse, and a faint smile crossed her lips. He had emerged from the battle on the Pelannor in better shape than she had, and the few scratches he had suffered were already healing nicely.

She sighed, glancing down to her bandaged left arm. It had been nearly a full day since that horror had finally ended, and yet the images still haunted her. She could still see the faces of the dead Gondorian soldiers, still hear the shrieks of the dying Orcs, the war cries of the Southrons, the pounding of the _mûmakil_'s footsteps…. So many times she had awoken from sleep in a sweat, thinking she once again felt the cold edge of that Easterling's blade against her throat.

Laimea shuddered involuntarily, her hand going to her neck. _I should be dead._

_Legolas…_

She felt her insides lurch; her heart squeezed in her chest and her gaze went up to the Healing House again. She knew he was still here in the City…somewhere. Aragorn and Gimli were still here; therefore Legolas would be also. She had met briefly with Aragorn after the battle, while she was attempting to recuperate in the privacy of her and Anya's City lodging. His visit had both surprised and worried her. But the man had not come to chastise her for taking part in the battle, nor to talk about Legolas, the Elves, or her past. He simply wanted to see how her injuries were fairing, and administer a good dose of crushed _athelos_ to the cut on her arm and bruise on her hip. The plant was effective and fast-acting… even now her wounds were greatly improved, and she wasn't in near as much pain as she had been the day before. A small smile made it to Laimea's lips at the memory. _He is fulfilling his role as King already_, she thought fondly. _Surely it is only a matter of time before he accepts the crown…_

The smile faded. Would Legolas remain in the City with the King of Gondor, then? Or would he return to his home? Would Gimli stay? She had run across the Dwarf twice since the end of the battle on the Pelannor, although both times he seemed in a rush and was hardly able to spare a moment to talk to her. The Elf, however, remained completely out of sight.

But then, Laimea herself had been attempting to do the same thing. For as much as she wanted to see Legolas again - to tell him how sorry she was for hurting him, to tell him she appreciated him saving her life, to feel the comfort of his embrace - she was also terrified of seeing him again. What if what she had read in his eyes the night she had said goodbye was no longer true? What if he didn't want to talk to her at all? What if he never wanted to see her again? What if everything Anya had said about him was true?

_You were the one who sent him away in the first place!_ Laimea snapped at herself_. It's your own fault if he never wants to lay eyes on you again. You'd deserve it. _Somehow such thoughts did little to ease the regret that still fiercely gripped her heart. If he would just come and find her, or if she could just find him… if he would just listen to her… give her another chance… she would tell him everything, she would make him understand why she did what she had done, she would finally express her true feelings for him. The feelings she had just so recently realized and accepted…

Morsul suddenly lifted his head from the grass, craning his head around to look behind him, ears pricked far forward. Laimea frowned at his behavior, following his gaze down the length of the road, but she saw nothing. A long second passed, and then the horse nickered softly. Morsul rarely greeted anyone other than herself, and in her growing confusion Laimea carefully got to her feet, wincing only slightly at the pain that jabbed through her ribs at the motion. She leaned against the wall for support, straining to see what Morsul saw, squinting down the cobblestone hill. Until at last she saw movement: a single person, walking swiftly up the deserted street of the third circle, heading directly toward her.

The long-legged strides were familiar… she gazed at the green tunic, the long blond hair, the bow that showed over one shoulder, and then her knees buckled. She only barely caught herself on Morsul's thick mane, gripping fistfuls of it to steady herself, still staring in absolute disbelief at the figure coming ever closer. He hadn't seen her yet; his face was turned down toward the ground, his brows furrowed in thought. Laimea tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. She felt dizzy; her heart thundered mightily in her ears and nearly drowned the sound of Morsul's second nicker.

But Legolas heard it. He looked up, his bright blue eyes first finding the horse and then drifting to the woman next to it. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, his body stiffening, and a terrible feeling rolled through Laimea's stomach. _He doesn't want to see me… he didn't mean to find me… he doesn't want to talk to me…_ The two of them stood in stretching silence for what seemed like eternity, staring at each other in the still morning air. The whole of Laimea's being wanted to say something, wanted to blurt out everything she had been prepared to say since they parted ways on the Pelannor. She couldn't let him walk away… she couldn't bear it if he left again without giving her a chance to explain… She took a wooden step forward and opened her mouth, but words utterly failed her. Her throat felt like it had closed in upon itself.

Her motion stirred Legolas; he swallowed hard, his rigid features softening slightly as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Laimea," he began hoarsely, hesitantly. "I... we…" He trailed off and sighed, dropping his eyes to the pavement beneath his feet before lifting them back to her face and locking her gaze with his own. The blank deadness she had feared to see in his eyes was gone, replaced by a calm determination, a quiet anger, and something else she had longed to find… a glimmer of affection and concern. "There are many things I wish to discuss with you," he said finally.

"Legolas," she whispered breathlessly, her fear melting away in the presence of a growing flame of hope, "there is much I wish to tell you."

* * *


	17. Past and Present

**Author's Note: **Whew, here it is at last. I actually had it almost done awhile ago, but then decided to rewrite it because I found some really old notes I'd discussed with Lu Am, so you should thank her for the better quality of this chapter! Also I apologize as I did not take the time to add the proper symbols over certain vowels in certain names, but you still know what they are. And, this has not been beta'd, so hopefully there aren't too many typos. :P (Luth An, if you're still up for beta-duty, email me and let me know the email address you're usually at!) Anyway, this is a pretty important installment, so I'm glad to have it done finally, and I hope you enjoy despite the wait. Thank you to every single one of you who have remained patient and supportive!! (Oh, and it's really just a coincidence that this chapter has the same name as a chapter in my KOTOR fic. Heh. That's just what fit this one...)

* * *

**Chapter 17: Past and Present**

Legolas and Laimea stood in the kitchen of her city dwelling, both on opposite sides of the room, both uncertain of how to begin this discussion. Laimea glanced over her shoulder again, making sure for the fifth time that the door had been bolted and the curtains drawn. The last thing she and Legolas needed at this point was Anya bursting in on them and launching into one of her hateful lectures.

_And what she would say to see me now…_, Laimea thought absently, turning her eyes back to Legolas. The Elf's sharp gaze darted around the smallish house, as if trying to take in everything at once in the dim lantern's light. But she also got the sense the cramped space made him uncomfortable. A pang of guilt lanced through her, but she knew there was nothing that could be done for him. They couldn't risk talking out in the street. There was too much of a chance they would be overheard. Too much chance someone might wander by and interrupt them. Too much chance Anya might find them. No, they had to stay in here, where it was quiet and safe from prying ears and eyes.

Laimea took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, feeling her bruised ribs stretch at the motion. She ignored the residual pain and the sling that cradled her injured left arm. Her full attention went to Legolas… but she had no idea where to start. He seemed to be in the same predicament; his eyes drifted back to her and found her staring at him, he looked away quickly, turning to examine the fine clay dishes Anya had stacked upon the countertop. Laimea could stand the anticipation no longer; she cleared her throat and opened her mouth, determined to say _something_ –

"What does it mean?" Legolas demanded suddenly, startling her.

She blinked, frowning in confusion.

"What does it mean?" he repeated, facing her at last, his blue eyes burning in a way that made Laimea step backwards. "What you said to me that night? The Dwarfish… what does it mean?"

Laimea swallowed hard, unable to hold his gaze this time. She licked her lips, smoothing the bodice of her gown with her good hand nervously. "Legolas," she said quietly, "you must understand I –"

"No, Laimea," he said harshly, and she looked to him in surprise to see him shaking his head. "No, I don't understand. I don't understand any of it… your behavior after the arrival of Gimli and Aragorn in the White Mountains, what you said the last night I saw you, why you lied to me the morning after…" A shadow crossed his eyes and she saw the muscles of his jaw clench. "Why you were fighting on the Pelannor, or how you managed to have a suit of Elvish armor…" He trailed off, at a loss, and sighed heavily. "I do not understand at all. I want answers, Laimea. I want answers now."

Laimea nodded silently, understanding his frustration. She had suffered the same torment of uncertainty these last few days; regretting her past actions and wondering if she had in fact done the right thing at all. Wondering if she would ever see Legolas again, if he would forgive her for all she had said, and how he might react to the story of her heritage. Now here he was, standing right in front of her, giving her an opportunity to explain herself. All she needed was the courage to speak… to tell him everything…

"Laimea," Legolas whispered suddenly, and the softness of his tone drew her eyes to him once more. "Please, I must know. I must know… where I stand."

She nodded again and took another deep breath. "I know," she forced out at last. "I'm so sorry…" Hot tears slipped through her lashes and dripped off her chin. She wiped them away quickly, but not before Legolas saw them. He moved across the kitchen in two long steps, then took her in his arms and crushed her to his chest. Laimea buried her face into his tunic; the feel of his arms around her again and the familiar smell of him brought back memories of their time together in White Mountains. She had come so close to pushing him away, to losing him forever… that thought combined with the stress of the previous battle and the weariness of her wounded body was too much for her to bear, and the sobs broke free before she could stop them.

Legolas squeezed her to him. "No, Laimea," he whispered, one hand lifting to stroke her hair. "No, please don't cry. I am so sorry… I never meant to hurt you."

His words only made her cry harder.

"I should have waited for you that morning," he continued solemnly. "I should have come back. I saw you standing at the wall… I should have come to find you then. But I… I was angry. I let pride cloud my judgment. And I have regretted that every day since. My behavior after the night we first reached Minas Tirith has been immature and unacceptable. Please forgive me, Laimea. Please…."

Laimea gulped in a breath, finally gaining control of herself well enough to look Legolas in the face and shake her head vigorously. "But you did nothing wrong," she croaked, wiping at the tears on her cheeks with her sleeve. "I am the one to blame, not you! I'm the one who punished you for my mistake, the one who tried to play foolish mind games and lied to you…." She sucked in another deep breath, barely suppressing the emotions that welled again in her chest. "I am so sorry, Legolas. I never meant for any of this to happen. I was just… I was scared. And I didn't know what to do…"

Her tears took over again, making her bruised ribs hurt, but she couldn't help it. Being able to speak her troubled thoughts lifted a monstrous weight off her shoulders, and the sobs that now rocked her shoulders were as much from relief as from guilt.

"Laimea," Legolas began quietly, "you stood in the face of raging mumakil not a day ago. You have nothing to be afraid of."

"But I do," Laimea murmured against his tunic. "I was afraid of the feelings I began to have for you in the White Mountains. I was afraid to accept them, to accept _you_. I was afraid to accompany you to the homes of the Elves for fear it would reawaken memories I've not remembered for so many years now… but I was afraid to tell you that, as well. I was afraid of losing you, Legolas. I was afraid you would leave me; that you would sail across the sea without me."

Legolas held her at arm's length, his fair features anxious. "Laimea, I promised you I would not sail until all the years of your life were passed. I would not break that promise. Not for anything."

"But Legolas," she protested, taking a deep, shaking breath and dropping her eyes back to the floor, "I've watched an Elf sail from the Gray Havens before. Someone I loved dearly, and who I thought would never leave me."

She felt Legolas' reaction more than saw it; his fingers tightened around her arms and his stance stiffened. Laimea forged ahead despite the brief dread that rippled through her stomach. "I… I can't go through that again," she whispered. "I can't. It broke my heart into so many pieces that I thought all the ages of this world could not heal it." She swallowed hard. "I thought… I thought I would never feel whole again. But then I found you. And you filled the empty space inside of me, except that only terrified me even more. If you were to leave me as well…" She shook her head; words couldn't even describe what she knew she'd feel if that ever happened. "I couldn't stand the thought of it. I didn't want to be hurt again, so I did the only thing I could think of to save myself the pain. I tried to pull away from you, I tried to ignore what I felt for you. That's why... that's why I acted the way I did the night we reached Minas Tirith. Part of me never wanted to see you again, and the other part... the other part hoped desperately that you would remain in the City instead of riding out for Isengard."

Silence followed her confession. Laimea didn't dare look Legolas in the face. She waited for his reaction, and after several long, agonizing moments, it finally came.

"You... have been to the Gray Havens?" The Elf's voice was strained.

Laimea nodded mutely, wiping at the fresh tears slipping down her cheeks.

"But... but I do not understand. That would mean..." Legolas trailed off, then stepped away from her. She risked a glance upwards; saw him staring at her like he had the night she'd mumbled the Dwarven phrase and forced herself to walk away. The guilty feeling overtook her again, but she resisted the urge to blurt out more apologies. She wanted to hear what he had to say... she wanted him to know... He swallowed visibly and briefly clenched his jaw, then spoke. "Who was this Elf you loved?" he strangled out.

"Arminas of Lothlorien," Laimea answered in a whisper. "My father."

The words struck Legolas like a slap in the face. His expression blanked for a second, and then comprehension dawned. His blue eyes widened. "Laimea," he breathed, as if suddenly coming upon a frightening realization.

She nodded again, knowing he had finally grasped the truth. "Yes, Legolas. I am half-Elven. I was born as Laimiel in Lothlorien to Arminas and Ninquelote - my mother, descendent of the Dunedain. I lived very happily among the Elves until my sixth year." Laimea abruptly felt so very weary… she moved to a chair at the wooden kitchen table and sat down heavily, her eyes staring off into the past. "I am sure that you, being an Elf, know of all the ancient stories regarding the unlucky unions of Man and Elf. However, as a child, I heard none of them. Afterwards… after the grief of that year… I heard them all." She took another deep breath, but the pain of memories compressed her lungs. She spoke quickly, hoping to get the story out before she lost all control. "And it seems my parents were doomed to become just another ill-fated pair in history. You see, that summer my mother planned a journey to visit her very dear friend in Rivendell. My father stayed behind in Lothlorien to watch over me." Laimea cleared her throat, having to clip off each word in order to hold back the tears. "My mother was attacked by Orcs before she could reach Rivendell. She was badly injured. Many of her attendants and scouts were killed. A few were dragged off to who knows what end."

Legolas' brows drew down to hood his eyes. His fingers curled into fists, and she knew what he was thinking. One of the biggest reasons she had trained in the art of sword and knife fighting and horseback riding was because of what the Orcs had done to her family. She had vowed long ago that no Orc would ever catch her helpless or unawares. Her greatest desire, ever since she was six years old, was to take revenge on every creature of Mordor she encountered. At least she could now take some peace in the knowledge that she had rid Middle-Earth of her share of Orcs. She glanced down to her fingers, intertwined in her lap.

"My mother was brought back to Lothlorien, but not even the Elves could heal her. The damage had already been done. There was nothing they could do. My father nearly went mad with grief. He couldn't stand the thought that he'd let my mother attempt such a journey without him. He blamed himself for her injuries, convinced that if he had been there to help protect her, she would have been all right." Laimea's vision blurred; she blinked hard and hot, salty trails stung her cheeks. "My mother died two weeks after the attack. It was horrible. My father didn't know what to do, and neither did the other Elves. Having a mortal die among them made them uncomfortable, yet they understood the depth of love my parents had for each other. My mother's passing was both a relief and a curse. They acted strange around me… probably because they were unsure of how to comfort me properly. And my father's behavior frightened me… though I loved my mother dearly, as a child I couldn't possibly fathom how hard it was for him. And then one day not long after my mother died, I found out he planned to leave."

Laimea forced herself to look up at Legolas. She wanted him to understand very clearly. She wanted him to know why she had done what she had done to him, why she had said what she had said. "My father…" she whispered deliberately, "my own father abandoned me when I was but a child. After my mother had so abruptly left me as well. He told me was leaving mere hours before we began the journey to the Gray Havens… mere days before the moment after which I would never see him again. I was only six. How could he be so cruel? So selfish?"

Legolas opened his mouth, but had no answers. After a second he closed it again and shook his head, but there was pain reflected in his steady blue gaze - a pain almost equal to that which squeezed her heart now like it hadn't in so many years…

"He left me his sword, and his armor, and then he sailed from the Gray Havens on a beautiful white ship, never to return." Her voice turned toneless. "He told me not to follow. But I tried anyway. I didn't even know how to swim yet, but I jumped into the ocean after him. They had to dive in and drag me back out. I begged him not to go even as the ship disappeared from sight. I screamed and kicked and cried. But he never came back. Never." She sighed heavily. "That was forty-six years ago. And to this day I cannot abide goodbyes. To this day the sound of the sea brings a dread to my heart not many have known."

"I hated the Elves after that, Legolas. I hated them for living when my mother had died. I hated them for being able to escape across the sea when they decided they no longer wanted to deal with the troubles of Middle-Earth. I hated them for allowing my father to leave me. I couldn't stay in Lothlorien… I didn't want to. Anya was my nurse at the time… of course she was much younger then. But her loyalty to me and my mother has never diminished. My father's actions infuriated her. She packed our possessions, took me by the hand, and together we turned our backs on the Elves. Eventually we stopped wandering and came to live in Minas Tirith. I began to be called Laimea instead of Laimiel, and Anya became my mother. She raised me here, Legolas. This is my City. These are my people."

Legolas looked at her in silence, then stiffly gave a nod. She saw the despair in his face and knew he thought she had made some sort of decision. But there was one thing she had yet to tell him, so when he opened his mouth to speak she interrupted. "For a very long time I ignored the fact I had Elven heritage," she said, effectively stalling whatever Legolas had been about to say. "Until I met you, Legolas. Until I realized you were the one person who made me feel truly at peace. Because the truth is, no matter what has happened in my past, I am a being of two halves who can only be whole when she accepts both parts. This is what I have learned since we left Helm's Deep together, though I have only rather recently admitted it to myself, and since then… it has brought me great comfort."

Relief smoothed the concerned creases on Legolas' brow, and Laimea's earnest stare met his eyes evenly. "And so I am sorry for the way I have been acting, Legolas. I was confused and scared. But now at last I have found direction again… and I believe, if you will forgive me - and if you will vow to prolong sailing to Valinor until I am good and dead, that my path lies alongside yours."

The Elf remained quiet for a moment, then stepped toward her. "I understand much of the reason for your behavior, Laimea, now that you have shared your past with me. However, even had you not told me of your heritage, I would still forgive you your past actions. I have had much time to think on things as well since last we parted ways," he said softly. "And I have come to realize how strongly I feel for you, Laimea. I would not leave you for anything… not even should Sauron win this battle and take over all of Middle-Earth with his evil. Still I would stay by your side." He grasped the hand of her uninjured arm in his own, holding it tightly. "That is my promise to you, Laimea. I will never leave you."

A thrill of happiness bubbled in the depths of Laimea's heart, but she suppressed it, regarding Legolas seriously. "You swear it?"

He nodded vigorously, lowering himself to one knee and looking her directly in the face. "Yes. I swear it on my life, with all my being and my heart. I cannot ride away from you again… I cannot, and I will not. No matter the circumstances."

Laimea swallowed hard; her heart began to pound fiercely as she searched his face and realized he meant every word. "Then I swear the same, Legolas," she breathed.

He smiled; the expression lit up his eyes. She released his hand, reaching out to touch the lock of blond hair that had fallen over his shoulder. It felt just as she remembered. Everything about him was just the same as she remembered: his intense eyes, his fair face, his silken hair, his earthy smell, the warmth of his skin. For a brief second her heart ached, but then she realized this Elf before her – who she had finally come to know she loved – had sworn to never leave her.

The happiness she'd previously held at bay exploded within her all at once, and Laimea leaned forward abruptly, kissing Legolas full on the lips. He responded immediately, one hand cradling the back of her neck and the other pulling her from the chair to press her against him. The two of them became lost in their fervor for many long moments, until the burn of desire that bloomed suddenly throughout Laimea's body grew strong enough that she pulled away at last.

"What is it?" Legolas asked breathlessly, looking concerned. His gaze was brighter than she'd ever seen it before.

Laimea glanced to the door. "My moth-, I mean, Anya will return here later in the day."

Legolas frowned, not following.

"I may have forgiven the Elves at last, Legolas, but she has not," Laimea explained. "If she finds us here together…"

He nodded in understanding. "Then I shall leave," he offered hoarsely.

"No," Laimea protested, perhaps too quickly. "I do not want to you to leave so soon after finding you again."

Another smile curved the Elf's lips. "Very well. Then we shall leave together."

Laimea nodded her agreement and Legolas got to his feet, then helped her to stand as well. The two of them peeked through the curtains to make sure there were no witnesses, then held hands tightly, unbolted the door, and slipped into the streets of Minas Tirith.

"Where should we go?" Legolas asked.

"I know of an unoccupied guesthouse not too far from here," Laimea answered, tossing him a slightly mischievous look over one shoulder as she pulled him along the cobbled path. "It will keep us safe enough from interruptions."

Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise, but then hurried to keep up.

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	18. The End of All Things

**A/N:** Sorry for the massive delay in finishing this fic! But as promised, it WILL be finished. **THIS IS NOT THE END**, however, I anticipate at least two more chapters. Thank you as always for your patience, I appreciate it! :)

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**Chapter 18: The End of All Things**

Chaos.

Black Orc blood, sour and foul, slicking his palms and drying on his face. Bodies everywhere, at his feet, surrounding him. His eyes focused on the dark armor, his knives finding the weak points, sinking into Orc flesh, defending the silver-armored figures of the human soldiers who fought alongside him. Swords flashed against the pale gray sky, clanged and sparked. Men screamed – war cries and death cries. Orcs screamed - shrill and cruel. Eagles and Nazgul swooped overhead, carrying out their own airborne battle; dark shadows hardly noticed by those on the ground.

_Frodo is dead._

The thought hardly processed as Legolas numbly, instinctually, continued to fight. His knives worked of their own accord, his mind still reeling from the news. The Mouth of Sauron had said… had held up the mithril shirt…

_Sauron has the Ring._

But still they fought. Would not give in to death without taking as many of Sauron's minions with them as they could.

The Elf saw a glimpse of Gimli to his right, hacking at Orc knees with his double-headed ax. Then a flash of Laimea to his left, and his heart lurched at the sight of her. He had violently protested her accompanying the other soldiers on this journey, but it was a futile struggle. Even Aragorn had condoned her presence in this battle, if only out of utter necessity. Every single capable warrior had been pulled from the forces at Minas Tirith; half the men still bore significant injuries from the Battle of the Pelannor. But their swords were desperately needed. They had all known they marched into a fight of nearly insurmountable odds, a battle that could not and would not be won unless Frodo destroyed the Ring.

Now… the fight could not be won.

At the least, they would all die together, and die fighting. And he would protect Laimea till his very last breath.

He kept her always at the corner of his eye, knowing that as long as she stayed seated on Morsul her fighting skills were more than enough to keep the Orcs at bay. Even the stallion himself seemed to sense the severity of the situation; he struck and kicked and bit at the enemy more fiercely than Legolas had ever seen.

But still, how long could they last? Already Legolas felt his muscles burning, his lungs straining. They had been fighting for so long…

An Orc only yards away yanked a small throwing axe from his belt, his beady black eyes focused on a point past Legolas' left shoulder. The Elf ducked a sword sailing for his head and slashed his knives across an unarmored stomach, spilling entrails. As he came around and straightened, he saw that the Orc with the axe aimed for Laimea. Legolas parried another blow from a twisted sword and spun back around, hurling one of his own knives at the Orc looking at Laimea. The white blade flashed like a star as it spun end over end, coming to an abrupt stop in the neck of its target.

The Orc's eyes flew open wide and it dropped its axe, its hands going to the curved haft protruding from its throat. But Legolas did not get to see it fall; a strong force slammed into the leather pauldron over his right shoulder, jarring him to his knees in the trampled mud. A white-hot pain shocked down his right arm and Legolas ground his teeth, forcing himself back to his feet even as he brought his one remaining knife around in a wide overhead arc that felled three more approaching Orcs.

But the pain in his shoulder remained bright and alive, and he realized the warmth spreading down his arm was blood. His blood. His arm hung limp at his side, useless. Legolas twisted to look at the wound and grimaced at the sight of the thick, dark arrow shaft. He couldn't reach it to pull it out or break it off. More Orcs pressed in around him, forcing him to ignore the biting pain, the feel of the barbed arrowhead grinding against his bone as he ducked and parried, struggling to hold them off using just one arm and one knife.

He had just put down the last of the group when another arrow punched into his back, making him stagger. The air rushed from his lungs and the world dimmed, stars bursting in front of his eyes. He fought with all his might to remain conscious, to keep his feet as he turned and searched in vain for the Orc with a bow. The ground rocked beneath him and Legolas stumbled, doubling over in an effort to catch his breath. His mouth tasted of copper; he spit a wad of blood into the mud and stared at it, unable to believe this would be his end.

_Laimea…_

He straightened, squinting into the chaos for some sign of her. His vision wouldn't focus. He couldn't breathe. The sounds of battle faded, replaced by the desperate pounding of his frantic heart.

"Legolas!"

Her piercing cry pulled him back from the edge of oblivion, somehow his feet moved in the direction of her voice. He tripped over a body and fell – right into her arms. She staggered under his weight, then lowered him gently to the ground. Her face swam in front of him; vaguely he felt the warmth of her bare hands on the sides of his face.

"Legolas, no!" Sobs choked her words; he tasted the salt of her tears. "By Eru, please, no!"

He had no strength left to reply, or to move. His body felt cold and heavy. His mind drifted back to the night they'd spent in the abandoned guesthouse, reliving the release of emotions those hours had brought, the rush of relief and joy that came with knowing their previous conflicts and uncertainties had been resolved, with knowing she returned his feelings in full. The three days afterward had been some of the happiest of his long life, and now, as her voice drifted away, he found himself grateful for the peace that memory brought him in this last moment.

Finally, when he could hold on no longer, he let himself go.

* * *

His body went limp in her lap, his bright blue eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, and Laimea felt her breath stop in her throat. She leaned in close to him, praying with all her might for some sign of life.

She felt no breath, no pulse.

Legolas was gone.

A well of emotions choked her; she felt as if she were drowning, gasping for air. A dark shape loomed in her peripheral vision: a Uruk-hai had broken through the line of human soldiers and bore down on her, its yellow eyes gleaming with blood lust. Laimea leapt to her feet and snatched up her sword, yanking off her golden helmet. It fell forgotten next to Legolas' body as she hurled herself at the enemy, a shriek of rage bursting from her lips.

The Uruk-hai was more than twice her size, but she had speed to her advantage. It had hardly lifted its black blade before her curved Elven sword found the creature's knees and severed them. The Uruk howled in pain, falling into the mud, and Laimea cut its cry short with a swift stroke from Legolas' lone knife.

She whirled on the next wave of Orcs without hesitation. Tears and fury blinded her. The flash of her two white blades was her only focus, each spurt of Orc blood her reward as she hacked mercilessly through the throngs of Sauron's army. She fought with everything she had, knowing there was nothing left to lose.

Nothing left….

* * *

Gimli climbed to stand atop the carcass of an Orc and lifted his double-headed axe high in the air, shouting a Dwarven cry of victory. The field before him was littered with bodies of both friend and foe, and the losses of the people of Middle-Earth had been great, but in the end good had triumphed. Against all odds Frodo had made it to Mount Doom and the Ring had been destroyed. Sauron had been defeated once and for all.

The Dwarf released a few more cries of conquest before jumping down off the body, scanning the milling groups of survivors for the tall Prince of Mirkwood. He and the Elf usually fought side by side, never straying too far from each other, but in the chaos of this battle they had eventually become separated. The Dwarf had not seen the woman Laimea for some time, either. He had feared little for her safety, however, knowing that Legolas' feelings for her would cause the Elf to act as an unfailing guard.

"Legolas!" Gimli called in a boisterous voice, grinning to himself beneath his beard. "Oh Legolas! No use avoiding me, my friend… it is time to once again compare our scores!"

But no Elf emerged from among the silver-armored men.

Gimli frowned, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting into the distance. He saw no green tunic, no blond hair. One of the few riders of Rohan still left with a horse cantered to Gimli's side and pulled his mount up short.

"Your Elven friend is gravely injured, Master Dwarf," the man reported breathlessly, gesturing westward to where Gandalf and a small group of soldiers huddled. "Best you say your farewells, I fear it is unlikely he will last the return journey home."

Gimli stiffened, staring at the man in disbelief. But the rider only spared him a brief look of pity before riding off again, searching the bodies for anyone else that might yet still be alive.

The Dwarf turned his eyes back to the group of soldiers and swallowed hard. He forced his feet to move, his limbs suddenly feeling wooden. The Elf had never before incurred any injury of consequence, having always emerged from every battle with little more than a few scratches. To think the Prince of Mirkwood had been mortally wounded was… inconceivable. Impossible. It couldn't be true. Surely the rider of Rohan had somehow confused the Elf with someone else…

One of the soldiers shifted just enough for Gimli to see into their circle; he caught a glimpse of green tunic and his heart wedged into his throat. He dropped his axe and broke into a jog.

But another sight stopped him cold, as if he'd run straight into a stone wall. Aragorn trudged through the battle field, an all-too-familiar figure draped in his arms. Gimli took in the golden armor, the long brown braid, the torn red cape stained dark with blood, and a deep horror stabbed at his insides. The Dwarf met Aragorn's weary gaze and opened his mouth, but the man shook his head, his whole body dragging with a profound sadness.

"She's dead, Gimli," he said finally. "She's dead."

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	19. This Life or the Next

**Author's Note**: Once again I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter posted. I dearly hope it does not disappoint. Only one or two more chapters after this one... very close to end now, if you can believe it! :P Thank you again so very much to all of you for your patience, and especially to those who leave encouraging reviews: those really are the fuel that keeps me going. Thank you thank you thank you!

* * *

**Chapter 19: This Life or the Next**

There were voices singing. Calling to him. Promising comfort and peace, and the company of his kindred, for all of eternity... showing him the way to the Halls of Mandos. He felt nothing, saw nothing, except for the singing - it coursed through his very being, reverberating in his soul. He knew the song instantly. Knew it in his heart of hearts... knew he was meant to follow it, to join it, to reside in the Halls alongside those who had come before him.

He followed the melody, intwined with the glorious tones, basking in their colors and feelings, saoking in the serenity they offered. He remembered he came from a world of pain and suffering, a world at war. Now he was free from that suffering... still bound to that world, yes, but no longer tied to its troubles.

But... something was wrong. Another memory struggled to come into focus, fighting against the overwhelming desire to give in to the song completely. A feeling of urgency, willing him to turn away from the song, away from the Halls of Mandos.

He tried to remember, but it was so hard to think. The voices beckoned to him, so soothing...

A face trickled into his awareness. The face of a woman. He knew her. Knew her well. No... he _loved_ her. The sense of urgency swelled and he thought his chest might burst. The singing faltered, and in the brief lapse his memories snapped into crystal clear focus.

_Laimea!_

_No... I will not leave her! _

He turned away from the voices, shut himself off from them. It was like plunging himself into freezing water and a gasp of air escaped his lips as the warmth and comfort of the song ripped away from his spirit. The light around him vanished, leaving him in utter darkness. For a moment he seemed to hang suspended in nothingness, and then, just as suddenly as the light had gone, feeling returned.

And horrible, sharp, stabbing pain.

He cried out, curling around the hurt, gasping for breath. But every breath only brought more pain, stars bursting in front of his eyes with each heave of his chest. He coughed and tasted blood, choked on it.

A murmur of voices reached his ears, but he could not understand them. Hands touched him, rolled him onto his side so he could spit the blood out of his mouth. Cool skin caressed his face, and then a damp cloth, but the pain dimmed his eyes until nothing was recognizable. He reached out blindly with one hand and felt soft silk covering an arm. He gripped it desperately, trying with all his might to speak around the agony roiling in his lungs.

But the effort was too much, and no sooner had he realized a hand had closed over his clenching fingers than darkness overtook him once more.

* * *

Time passed, spent in alternating cycles of pain-soaked consciousness and dark dreams. Shapes drifted around him, framed by light. Scents and sounds vaguely registered: the smell of fall, of woods, lingering lavendar, some sort of pugnant incense. There was the whisper of tree leaves, a music he knew so well, and the tinkle and splash of water, soft footsteps back and forth, in and out of oblivion. Sometimes, on his worst days, he still heard the faint breath of song on the breeze, calling him back to the Halls. But he clung to his memory of Laimea, resisting the temptation to be free of his suffering.

Gradually the pain receeded. Breathing and moving became less torturous. Until one day, he opened his eyes and saw clearly. He recognized the ceiling immediately.

_Imladis._

He took a careful breath and released it slowly, noting the taut pull of stitches in his shoulder, back and chest. Still like a hot knife against his skin, but ever so much better than it once had been. He turned his head on a stiff neck and saw a she-Elf in a light blue dress sitting in a chair near his bed. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight as she perused the open book in her lap. She glanced up, saw him looking at her, and gave a shriek, bolting to her feet. The book thumped to the ground at her feet.

"By Eru, you are awake at last!" she breathed, coming to his side in one long step. "Can you speak?"

Legolas lifted his eyebrows. He had not expected that question. But it was a good one. He wanted very much to speak. He needed answers to his own questions. He swallowed hard, wincing at his dry mouth. He cleared his throat, attempted to form a word. It was very hard. He wondered how long he had been sleeping and healing.

He tried again, concentrating. "Water," he finally croaked.

The she-Elf started, then darted across the room to bring him the water pitcher. She helped steady it in his weak grip, and he brought the liquid to his lips, drinking deeply. When he had finished she placed it on the floor, her blue eyes regarding him intently. "Better?"

He nodded.

"Do you... remember who you are?"

Another question that took him by surprise. For so long he had been alone with only one thought: to return to Laimea. Any other thought now seemed foreign and strange. He frowned, forcing himself to think. Did he remember? There were many things he remembered now... all seemed distant and gray, as if they had happened in a dream. Maybe he_ had _dreamed them...

"Yes," he whispered. "I believe so. I am... I am Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. My father is... Thranduil."

The she-Elf gave him a bright smile, nodding vigorously. "Yes, yes, very good! I am Vanaloth, I have been your care-taker, along with Lalaith, who sits with you during the nights. Legolas, we feared the worst for you. Not even Gandalf believed you would survive your injuries. Word will be sent to your father at once that you have awakened - he will be greatly relieved!"

She turned to hurry away, but Legolas caught her sleeve and stopped her. She turned to him with a questioning look.

"Please, Vanaloth," he said huskily, still finding his voice. "I must know how long I slept?"

She hesitated briefly, a shadow crossing her fair face. "You were all but lost to us when you arrived here two months ago. Elrond did all he could for you, but even he says you lived on sheer will alone. You tossed in fever until only a few nights past. Still we had hardly dared hope you would fully return to us." She smiled again. "You are a strong fighter, Legolas. The strongest I have seen. Everyone will want to welcome you back!"

She moved off, her sleeve slipping from his grasp, but he called out to her again before she passed through the doorway.

"Yes, Legolas?"

He frowned, looking around at the room and the stretching forest beyond the half-walls. "I saw... many dark things while dreaming, and I recall nothing of how I came to be here. I think... I think I remember fighting a war over the One Ring... but it is difficult now to distinguish my dreams from the truth. Can you tell me... was I dreaming? Or was this war real?"

Her smile vanished, her face paling. She clasped her hands together in front of her. "It is true, Legolas," she whispered. "There was a war over the One Ring. A long and terrible one. You fought it alongside Gandalf, and Aragorn of the Dunedain, who has since resumed his rightful place as the King of Gondor. There was Boromir, also of Gondor, who fell to a Uruk-hai's arrows, and Gimli the Dwarf, and four Hobbits of the Shire. Your fellowship was tasked with taking the Ring to Mordor, to destroy it by throwing it into the fires of Mount Doom."

Legolas blinked, searching his memories desperately. The names sounded so familiar, the mention of the task dredging up familiar feelings of dispair and hope, determination and fear. Why could he not remember clearly? He thought he could remember faces... Gandalf... Gimli... Aragorn... and the Hobbits...

"I do not know all that happened once you left the gates of Imladis," Vanaloth continued softly, "but much of it has been told around the tables here and in other lands. Your name, along with the nine others, has become a legend, Legolas. Some of it is perhaps not all true, but much of it is, as verified by Gimli and Gandalf, and I cannot imagine how you or any of the others survived such terrors. Yet you have. More than that... we have won the war, Legolas. The Ring was destroyed... Sauron is no more." She crossed the room back to his bed and clasped his hand tightly in her own. "The people of Middle-Earth are truly free once more. And it is due to your actions, Legolas. Your bravery. Yours, and that of the nine who traveled with you."

The room spun and Legolas gripped Vanaloth 's hand even harder in an attempt to stop it. He squeezed his eyes shut. This did not seem real... perhaps he was still dreaming. Somewhere in his mind he knew this was impossible. Frodo - yes, that was his name! Frodo was dead, he remembered that now. The Black Gates had loomed before them on the ashen plain, and the Mouth of Sauron had ridden out, holding Frodo's mithril shirt...

"Frodo," he choked out, wincing at a thread of pain that shot through his chest. "What about Frodo?"

Vanaloth swabbed his face with the damp cloth again, but he pushed her ablutions away. "Yes, Frodo," she said. "Do not worry yourself over him. He is here too, not far away, healing as well."

Legolas' mouth dropped open, his eyes snapping open to stare up at her.

"We feared his death as well, but against all odds, he reached Mount Doom and destroyed the Ring. Samwise Gamgee was with him. Once the Ring and Sauron were gone, the minions of the Dark Lord lost their will to fight and fled into the wilds. Gandalf took eagles to the firey mountain and rescued the Hobbits from its edge. He brought them here, along with you, to be treated by the Elves. But Sam and Frodo were not as bad off as you. They have been up and about for a few weeks now." She released his hand, setting the cloth back near the wash basin next to his bed. "I will fetch them now, they will be most happy to know you are yourself again."

She disappeared with a swish of her dress, and Legolas stared at the door long after she had gone. He had not gotten the chance to ask about Laimea. Was she here too? Had she been injured in the battle? He knew they had been fighting together, but still could not remember how he had been injured. Last he recalled seeing her, she had still been aboard her stallion Morsul, and fighting fiercely. But if he had fallen...

His heartbeat quickened, throbbing in his aching head. What would become of her without him there to watch her? Had she seen him fall? Had she helped him come to Imladis? Had she waited for him to recover here, or gone back to Gondor to resume her duties?

The last time he had left her side, he had found her again on the battlefield with an enemy's knife to her throat.

He closed his eyes against the memory, but the image burned into his mind, clear as the moment it had happened. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling short of breath. He laid flat on the bed and forced himself to take slow, even breaths, fighting the clutching panic that bloomed in his chest. He willed the others to arrive immediately - he had to know if Laimea was safe... had to see her again...

Footsteps came to the door and he turned his head slightly to see who had come, exhaling in relief. At last he would have some answers...

Vanaloth came in first, smiling gently at him, then stepped aside to admit the others. They entered like a live stream, bubbling and bouncing and all talking at once, grinning ear to ear with arms open wide. Despite his concern for Laimea, Legolas found it hard not to return their enthusiasm with a weary smile.

Merry and Pippin were the most boisterous, launching into an account of what had happened to them after the Fellowship had been split up in loud voices, using many exaggerated hand gestures. Sam and Frodo were more reserved, standing back a bit and watching their fellow Hobbits with amused expressions. Yet Legolas could see the shadow in Frodo's eyes... a shadow he knew would probably never fully receed. One could not carry the Ring for so long and come away unharmed.

His attention was drawn away from the Hobbits by Gimli's booming voice ranting about how the Elf must of injured himself on purpose in an attempt to weasel his way out of their kill counting, or their little bet.

"Bet?" Legolas spoke at last, his voice still gruff from lack of use.

Gimli's eyes widened and he threw up his hands. "Yes! Yes, the bet! Oh come now, you pointy-eared forest dweller, you cannot tell me you have forgotten about our bet! Or that you lost it? If I won the count - which I did - you promised you would finally try some Longbottom Leaf! And I happen to have some right here..." The Dwarf pulled his pipe and a pouch of the tabacco from his belt.

Vanaloth opened her mouth, an expression of alarm crossing her fair face, but Gandalf spoke before she could, stepping forward from his place in one of the room's corners.

"Now now Gimli," the Wizard said gently, "Legolas is in no condition to be smoking. He has only just awoken, and is still not fully healed. I believe we have caused him enough trouble for today. Let us go and give him more time to rest. I am sure he is more than willing to honor your bet, Gimli, when he has fully regained his strength."

The Dwarf hesitated, glancing from Legolas to Gandalf and back again, then conceeded and placed the pipe and pouch back on his belt.

Legolas frowned. He did remember making the bet. He did not remember losing it. He would have to talk to Gimli more about that later. After he...

"Laimea!" he blurted, as they were filing out. She was not among them. All of them stopped short. The Hobbits winced, and Gimli looked away. Gandalf brought up the rear of the group. He motioned for the others to go on, and as they hurriedly slunk away, much more somberly than they had arrived, Legolas felt a cold fear settle in his gut.

"Gandalf," he said slowly, trying hard to keep himself under control. "You must tell me what has happened. Where is Laimea?"

The Wizard's face fell, and he slowly eased himself down into the chair next to the bed, resting his staff against the wall. He clasped his gnarled hands in his lap and sighed heavily. Vanaloth went quietly to the door, and with a last, sad look over her shoulder, also slipped out of the room.

Legolas brought his eyes back to Gandalf, the blood rushing in his ears so he could barely hear. His fists clenched his sheets. "Gandalf," he whispered. "Tell me."

The Wizard cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and spoke. "We went to a battle that could not be won. You knew that, so did she. We went to distract the Dark Lord, and give Frodo a better chance at destroying the Ring. The Mouth of Sauron rode out, carrying Frodo's mithril shirt. He claimed they had captured and killed Frodo, and that Sauron once again had the Ring. We thought all was lost. And yet we fought."

"I remember," Legolas ground through his teeth, losing patience. "Gandalf, please..."

Gandalf shifted slightly, his eyes holding Legolas' unwavering stare. "All who fought there risked a likely death. It was a long and hard fight. Before Frodo destroyed the Ring, and the minions of Sauron fled, and we discovered the Mouth of Sauron had been lying, you were struck by Orc arrows. Two of them. You fell, Legolas. You died... or at least, you were dead to any mortal's eyes. Laimea saw you fall, watched you pass away... and then, as far as I hear from what those who fought near her and survived have said, she abandoned sound battle strategies. The extent of her fury is said to have frightened some enemies into fleeing before her sword came within reach of them. She slaughtered an untold number of Orcs and Urak-hai before her disregard for her own safety put in her in a place where their numbers finally overwhelmed her."

Legolas felt the blood drain from his face as Gandalf paused, shaking his head.

"She was struck down, Legolas. Murdered by a Uruk's sword. Aragorn found her on the battlefield after all was over. She was given a hero's burial, and now rests in Gondor. I am terribly sorry to have to bring you this news, especially now, after you have endured so much yourself. Terribly, terribly sorry."

There was a long silence, and Legolas found it impossible to speak. His body was numb, his breath caught in his lungs. He felt his fingernails digging into his palms even through the sheets. He had died... and rejected the Halls of Mandos. He had spent every drop of his strength and will to refuse death and cling to life, for the sole purpose of honoring his promise to Laimea. He had said he would not leave her, and he had not. He had suffered much to make certain he would return to her. And now here he was, alive. Alive.

And alone.

"No." The word strangled past the horror clogging his throat. "No," he said, louder this time. "She is not dead."

Gandalf blinked, sitting back in the chair. "I beg your pardon?"

"She cannot be dead," Legolas repeated, his voice edged. "I came back for her... I must find her..." He surged into a sitting position, causing Gandalf to shoot to his feet in protest. But the Wizard's preventions were unnecessary; the abrupt movement of the effort made Legolas' vision splinter and white-hot knives of pain dug into his ribs. His mouth opened in a breathless cry as he dropped back to the mattress.

He heard Gandalf call for the nurse.

"No," he gasped, sweat breaking out across his forehead as he writhed in agony. "No, do not stop me..." He tried again to get up, his stitches flaming. "I must... find her... I came back for her..." He balanced precariously on the edge of the mattress for only a second before Gandalf pushed him back down. The nurse rushed in, carrying a goblet of liquid.

"Legolas, please," Gandalf begged, "you must stop this madness. You will only end up causing yourself more pain. She is gone, you must accept it."

"Here, drink this," Vanaloth offered, holding out the goblet in her hands. "It will help calm you."

"NO!" Legolas knocked the cup from her hand and she jumped back with a yelp as he mustered all that was left of his strength and stood from the bed. Gandalf stared in alarm, momentarily paralyzed. In that second, Legolas took the chance to move for the door. He made it only one step before his body gave in. His knees buckled and he doubled up with a gruff cry, white flashing before his eyes. The pain was intense, stabbing into every pore, every nerve.

And then, oblivion claimed him once more.

* * *

Weeks passed.

Legolas' injuries grew minimally better, but his healing was slowed by his obsession with finding Laimea. He refused to believe she had really been killed in battle. They were just trying to keep her from him... perhaps at Anya's request. Or... perhaps at Laimea's request.

The thought made him ill and he pushed it from his mind resolutely. That could not be so... they had resolved their conflicts before the Battle at the Black Gates, had promised to always remain honest and open with eachother. She would not send him away again, not after that night...

Would she? If she had seen him fall and believed him to be dead, was it possible she had been so upset she had decided not to continue their relationship after finding out he still lived? After hearing of the way her father had left her, Legolas knew it was possible she might do something of the sort to save herself any future grief. Or perhaps she had not even yet been told that he was not dead afterall.

Legolas ground his teeth, tossing a sideways glance at the healer who sat in the chair by his bed, reading a book, maddeningly calm. Nothing could be solved by lying in this bed day after day and night after night. He had to find Laimea, one way or another, and get answers. His reaction to the initial news of Laimea's supposed death had not gone over well with Gandalf or the healers, however, and now they did not trust to leave him alone.

They watched him constantly. Except for a brief few minutes while the nurse retrieved a new book or had to relieve herself. That would be his only chance, and he planned it carefully. He was still not fully ready to undertake such a long journey, but he also knew he could wait no longer. It had to be tonight.

He waited until long after dark, pretending to sleep. He cracked an eye every now and then to check on Lalaith, his nightly attendant. He almost went mad with waiting, thinking she would never leave even once that night, until she finally rose from her chair and stretched. He closed his eyes again, concentrating on mimicking the slow, even breaths of sleep, and listened as her soft footsteps went to the door and faded away.

He immediately sprang into action, throwing back the covers and sitting up carefully. He grimaced as the wound in his chest protested the movement. He put a hand over it, feeling the bandage that still wrapped it, and steeled himself. He rose slowly, gripping the headboard for balance, then moved cautiously for the door in the golden light of the room's single lantern. His legs were unsteady, his muscles weak. He'd nearly reached the doorway when a sharp stab lanced from the stitches in his shoulder. He sucked in a breath to hold back the cry and stumbled against the Elven figure carved into the half-wall. He stood there for a few precious seconds, clenching his jaw against the hurt, until it faded once more. Then he slipped from the room and padded silently across the stone courtyard, heading for the city's stable.

Legolas reached it without incident, despite the several times he'd had to stop to catch his breath. Walking was a far more laborous task than he'd imagined. He watched warily for anyone who might try to stop him, his ears pricked for the call of alarm from Lalaith as she returned to the room and found him gone. But the night remained quiet and empty. Still, he knew his time had to be running short.

He entered the dirt aisle of the stable quietly on bare feet, but stopped at the first horse's stall. He did not have the time nor the strength to be choosy about his mount. A cold sweat broke out across his body as he unlatched the horse's stall and led it out. His hands trembled, but he ignored that as he gripped the horse's white mane and attempted to mount. The effort wrenched a cry from him as excruciating pain blossomed throughout his body, and he fell to his hands and knees in the dirt, fighting hard against the blackness that crept in around the edges of his vision.

The horse shifted uncertainly, nickering softly and turning its head to look at him. Legolas closed his eyes, breathing deeply. For a moment he thought he might lose to unconsciousness, but then he thought again of Laimea. Tears stung his eyes and he forced himself to his feet, hanging on to the horse for balance. She could not be dead... she could not. Not after he'd fought so hard to remain with her. Not after he'd sworn to her he'd never leave her. He took hold of the mane once more, took another deep breath, then gave a mighty leap and swung aboard the horse's back.

The shivering pain brought another cry from him and Legolas swayed, leaning precariously to one side before regaining his balance. But the stable still seemed to tilt, and as the horse moved forward into the night, Legolas felt the tears overrun his lashes. He let them fall, slumping tiredly over the horse, and the animal made its way toward the gray stone archway that led out of Rivendell.

Legolas did not see the beauty of the silver night around him, nor did he consciously recognize the path before him. He let the horse walk the road without steering for the moment, concentrating on ignoring his screaming wounds. It was difficult, even for him, and he found he could not even meditate.

He'd fallen into a sort of half-sleep when the horse suddenly stopped. Legolas nearly fell off at the sudden halt, and he reluctantly raised his head to see what had stopped the animal. He made out a blurry figure in front of him, standing beneath the archway, blocking the way out of the River City.

Legolas blinked, struggling to bring his vision back into focus. He squinted, finally recognizing Elrond standing there, one hand resting lightly on the horse's nose to hold the animal. His heart sank, but he was not ready to give up so easily.

"Let me pass," he croaked.

Elrond didn't move, nor did he speak. He simply stood there, looking at Legolas with a fatherly disapproval.

"Please, let me pass," Legolas tried again, desperation leaking into his voice. "I ask only this one thing."

Elrond frowned, his stern blue eyes fixing upon the younger Elf. "You are not well, Legolas," he said finally. "You would not last the journey. And you know this."

"I am not afraid," Legolas said quietly, defiantly. "I have heard their voices... have heard them calling my name, Elrond. But I fought to remain here because of her. And I cannot lie helpless any longer. I must find her."

Elrond shook his head, his face grave. "Legolas, if you leave now you will hear their voices again. And this time you will not have the strength to resist them."

Legolas grimaced, wishing Elrond would stop talking and just let him go. He put a hand to the bandage over his ribs again, realizing he had to concentrate very hard to keep Elrond in focus. "It matters not," he ground out. "I cannot wait any longer... I must find her, whether it is in this life or the next."

Elrond stepped closer to Legolas' side, and his eyes were hard as he spoke. "I can tell you where she is, Legolas. She is dead. You must accept that. She has moved on. And you must do the same."

Legolas shook his head vigorously, but his throat clogged with grief, rendering him mute. He kept shaking his head in denial though he could not speak, but deep in his heart, he realized he knew what Elrond said was true.

"No!" he choked out fiercely. "No! She cannot be dead!" As if the words, said often enough, could change everything.

"Do you question the integrity of your friends, Legolas?" Elrond snapped suddenly. "What reason would they have to lie to you about such a thing? You are being foolish - risking death in your denial, having no regard for those who gave so much in the war and still live, who still care for you... did you take any time at all to consider your living friends before you set out on this undertaking?"

Legolas felt himself trembling, his face burning in shame. Was Elrond right? Was he truly being foolish? Selfish even? The hand that gripped the horse's mane had turned as white as the horse itself. He swallowed hard, found he could not breathe. The horse and Elrond blurred into the forest and buildings around them, and everything slowly grew darker.

Legolas did not fight it this time. The world tilted around him and he felt himself falling from the horse. But it no longer mattered. Laimea was gone. He let the darkness take him.

Elrond caught Legolas as he fell and carried the young Elf back toward his room. As he went he called urgently for the healers, knowing that this time the Prince of Mirkwood might not wake again.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED...


	20. To Keep Living

**A/N:** MERRY FRIGGIN' CHRISTMAS! ^_^ Bet you never thought this day would come, huh? Well, I promised I would finish this, and I'm going to finish it! I do apologize that it was not posted before Christmas as I said on my profile, but, one day after isn't so bad, right? So... **THIS IS NOT THE END**. There is one more chapter to go! Omg, I can scarce believe it! We are almost done with this thing! To all the new readers, welcome, and I hope you enjoy the remainder of this tale. To all my faithful, loyal, amazing, beyond-awesome, incredible, wonderful, and un-friggin-believably-patient long-time readers who have stuck with this story for half your lives... you have my eternal love and gratitude. Really. If it weren't for you and your persistant reviews, PMs, and favoriting, this thing may never have been finished. But because of your enthusiasm and love for the story, I owe it to you to finish it. And so I will. I hope it will not take another year and half, though. Also, please go to my profile and take my new poll, if you would be so inclined. I am working on my debut novel and hope to have it sold by the end of the year. :) If you are interested in keeping up with my writerly projects, including the novel and this monster of a fanfic, you can find me as Jennifer R Frontera on Facebook, or jayaevenstrider on LiveJournal. I hope to see you around!  
Very much love and appreciation, Losse

* * *

**To Keep Living**

_... many years later ..._

* * *

Thranduil approached his son from behind, a frown forming on his face as he took in Legolas' appearance. The young Elf leaned against the frame of the palace's outer doors, staring blankly into the depths of the forest beyond, his youthful face strained and pale, his blue eyes brooding and dark. Thranduil reached Legolas' side, but still the prince took no notice of him, and the king took a deep breath before speaking.

"Legolas?"

He startled at the sound of his name, turning in surprise to see his father standing next to him. He blinked in confusion, wondering how the elder Elf could have gotten so close without detection. He quickly regained his composure, straightening his shoulders, and nodded to his father in greeting.

"Legolas," Thranduil said quietly, firmly, "you must let go."

Legolas' insides flinched at the words, but his face remained a steely fixture of resolve and agony. His eyes searched those of his father, but Thranduil's face held only worry and concern for his son. Legolas clenched his jaw as he felt the sting of tears, bitterly refusing them, and when the threat of them had passed he opened his mouth to speak. "I cannot," he said thickly. "I will not."

Thranduil pursed his lips, his brows furrowing. "Legolas," he tried again, "it has been twenty-six years. _Twenty-six_ years. You must stop hanging on to her or it will kill you."

Legolas stared at his father for a moment before turning away to face the forest again. "Then I will die," he said gruffly, clenching his fists at his sides. His eyes clouded with tears, but he did not let them fall. He looked to the tall trees of Eryn Lasgalan, but did not see them. He saw through them, looking far back into the past, back to the precious few days he had spent with Laimea. They had been so few, but they had been enough. He would not allow her memory to die as his father wanted, as so many others wanted. No. He would keep her alive within him for as long as he lived, no matter how long or how short that would be.

"I do not understand this, Legolas," Thranduil protested, and in his voice rang a clear note of frustration. "You spent hardly more than a weeks' time with her. You did not wait through the time of betrothal, and you were not married to her. Yet in your grief you act as if you had loved her for centuries."

"I had," Legolas answered immediately. "I have. I just did not know it."

Thranduil stood for a moment in silence, trying to comprehend Legolas' words. His frown deepened. "She was a mortal, my son. The time you spent with her is not even a breath among the Eldar. You should be grateful that she died so soon and saved you the folly of loving her more deeply. Do you not understand, Legolas? This grief you feel is not real, it cannot be. You hardly knew her! If she had lived through the battle and you had gone through with your desire to wed her, she still would have died, and you would still be suffering, a thousand times more than you suffer even now."

Legolas whirled on his father, his eyes bright with fury. "But I would have had more time! I would have had more time with her… she should not have died in that battle! She died because of me…" He broke off, the lump in his throat choking him, and turned away from his father again, swallowing gulps of air to try and stop himself from breaking down. He closed his eyes, letting the warm tears slide over his cheeks. He could not stop them from falling this time.

"You have spent too much time among men," Thranduil stated bluntly, anger edging his voice. "You allowed yourself to fall for that woman too quickly, too rashly. What you felt was passion, and still you are hanging on to that. But passion is a thing of men, Legolas, and it fades quickly, just as they do. You are not one of them, you are an Elf! Your years are yet unnumbered; do not waste them away grieving for a mortal, a woman you never truly loved!"

Legolas faced the king stiffly, using all his strength to keep himself under control. He had never before had the urge to strike out at a fellow Elf, but it took all his willpower not to do so now. He fixed his father with a smoldering gaze that would have cowed even the fiercest Orc warrior. But the king did not back down from his son's glare.

"What would you know of how I feel?" Legolas growled, his voice not sounding his own. "What would you know of love? Or of passion? I did not see you grieve when mother died!"

The slap echoed through the corridor and caught Legolas completely by surprise. He stumbled, righted himself, and looked back to his father with a face that raged a mixture of anger and shock. He held back the hand that itched to return the blow and gritted his teeth at the sting that spread through his left cheek. He glanced briefly at their surroundings, checking for anyone who might have seen that exchange, but the forest paths and palace hallways were empty.

"Of that you know nothing," Thranduil hissed, and Legolas looked back to find his father's dark blue eyes livid. "I loved your mother very deeply," the king said, his voice hardly above a whisper. "But I am the Lord of this realm, and I could not abandon my people."

"I would have succeeded you," Legolas pointed out darkly, barely resisting the urge to rub at his flaming cheek. He would not give his father that satisfaction.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed and then he turned away from his son, walking to stand at the opposite side of the doorway and letting out a dismissive grunt. "No, Legolas," he said, his tone softening just slightly. "You were not ready. You still are not ready." He turned to face the prince, folding his hands inside his voluminous sleeves. "You speak even now of leaving your people to fade away in your grief for some mortal woman. That is selfish, and a leader cannot be selfish."

Legolas glared at his father, his heart burning with fury and anguish, pounding hard into his ribs and through his temples. Selfish. He swallowed hard, realizing somewhere in his mind that his father spoke mostly the truth, but his heart still bitterly refused to believe it. No. _No._ The core of his being still belonged to Laimea, and he could not bear the thought of living centuries without her, pretending as if the things he'd felt for her were merely trivial.

_Selfish? No._

"I grieved for your mother," Thranduil said quietly, and now Legolas could see the sheen of tears in his father's eyes. "More than you could ever know. But I could not leave you, and I could not leave the people of this place. It was not easy, Legolas," the king admitted, and his voice trembled for a brief second. "But it was necessary. Do you understand?"

Legolas swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his harsh breathing. He felt another tear fall and swiped at it angrily, hating to show such a lack of control in front of his father. "I loved her," he confessed harshly, the only words he could manage to say. "I told her I would never leave her… I stayed alive for her! I cannot just forget her. I cannot, and I will not!"

Thranduil let out a quiet breath. "You do not have to _forget_ her, my son, just _let her go_. The life within you is fading, and I am not the only one who has noticed. I lost your mother long ago, and I nearly lost you once already. I do not want to lose you again, Legolas."

The prince looked at his father silently, but the king's eyes were now dry, looking to him sternly. "Think of your people in Ithilien," he said. "Did you lead them there just to abandon them now? You have no child, no heir. Who would lead them when you were gone? Who would protect them? They have made a home for themselves there; surely you would not cause them to leave?"

Legolas leaned with one hand against the doorframe, the other on his hip, staring at the ground beneath his feet, his mind working furiously. "You said yourself I am not a leader," he muttered sourly at last.

"You are not behaving like a leader, Legolas, and that is certain. But you are my son and thus you were born a leader. You just have yet to find that courage within yourself… but rest assured it _is_ there, somewhere."

Legolas turned on his father again, snarling. "Do not speak to me of courage!" He jabbed a finger out toward the forest, in the direction of Gondor and Mordor, now so far away but once ever-so-near to him. "I have felled thousands of Orcs, stood in the face of the Nazgul, brought down a cave troll, walked the Paths of the Dead, and fought at the Black Gates themselves – all without so much as blinking! What do you call that if not courage!?"

A small, sad smile pulled at Thranduil's mouth as he shook his head. "You still have a great deal to learn, my son, and it appears your expansive travels have not taught you much."

Legolas opened his mouth to snap back, but his father spoke again, interrupting him.

"Dying is easy," the king whispered, and the words took Legolas aback. "Look at all that is around you, Legolas. All of it mortal, aside from the Eldar. All of it dying from the moment it is first birthed, or grown, or hatched. Victims of time itself, or of each other. It is easy to rush into battle and sacrifice yourself for a cause. It is so easy to die. Most creatures of this world don't even need try in order to die." Thranduil took a few steps forward, his steady gaze boring into his son's. "But _livin_g. That is another matter. Living is _hard_, Legolas. Living is the true battle, the true sacrifice. And in that sense we Eldar are perhaps the most cursed of all of Illuvatar's children. We do not get to die so easily, do we? No. To _live_ takes true courage, Legolas. To keep on living despite all we see and experience in this world – the wars, the hatred, the violence, the evil… the deaths of those we love. That is the courage I speak of; the courage to carry on. To _keep living_. But you, Legolas… you have been unwilling to live for twenty-six years now."

The king sighed softly. "You say you loved Laimea, but do you not also love your people?"

Legolas inhaled a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose, mulling over what his father had said. He lifted his eyes to the trees, feeling his frustration grow. There was truth in the words, he knew… he could feel it stabbing at his heart like a spear of ice, cold and sharp and merciless, trying to break through the guilt that had shrouded him since he'd realized he had lived while Laimea had died. But the curtain of misery was thick and dark, and could not be torn so easily.

"You know I care for our people, father," Legolas said finally. "You know I care for my people in Ithilien. But you cannot compare that love to the love I have for Laimea. You should know that. If you loved mother half as much as you say you did then you should know that!"

A stiff silence stretched between them, but the younger Elf's keen eyes had been trained to notice the slightest movement of a body, and now despite all the king's heavy robes he saw his father tense, the dark blue eyes flash.

"Legolas," Thranduil bit off sharply, "listen to me very carefully. You are being foolish. Foolish and selfish. Your mother was an Elf. I had enough sense to marry within my own race at least-"

Legolas felt his own body tense, his anger flaring hot enough to bring a flush to his face.

"-and when your mother died I nearly decided to go with her. But I did not, because I knew that would be unreasonable considering the circumstances. Because I knew I could not abandon those who still depended on me in the world of the living. But I also knew that if ever a time came later on when I decided I wanted to join her, I would be able to do so."

Thranduil shook his golden-haired head, a look of pity coming to his face. "Laimea was a mortal, my son, you must remember that. She has died, and the souls of mortals do not remain tied to this world as the souls of the Eldar do. Legolas… even if you should abandon your people and die of your grief, Laimea has passed beyond your reach. Even in death you could not be reunited with her. Do you understand? _It is not possible_."

Legolas stared blankly at his father, a sudden stab of horror crushing his previous anger as he realized consciously for the first time that what his father said was true. It had been so instinctive: the want, the need, the desire to die after he'd found out about Laimea's death. But first there had been the healers, who would not let him slip away into the world of the dead, and then there had been a few things worth living for: Aragorn's coronation, Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, saying farewell to the Hobbits… tears bit into his eyes once more.

_Aragorn and Arwen's wedding - a mortal and an immortal, just as Laimea and I… just as we should be…_

But those few events had been merely distractions, and as soon as Legolas had come home to Eryn Lasgalan the despair had consumed him once more. It was only natural for an Elf to desire death after the passing of much beloved mate, just as he supposed it was a natural thing for widowed mortals to feel as well. It was a common relief for grief stricken mates of any race to think that they would soon be reunited with their loved ones after death. And isn't that what his father had just said?

_So easy to die… so difficult to keep living…_

But it would not be so for him and Laimea, even if he were to give in to his grief. It could not be so.

Legolas turned away from his father abruptly, facing the edge of the doorway and biting his lip as a well of panicky desperation clogged his throat_. No… it isn't true. There is a way… there has to be a way…_ His mind struggled feebly, but he knew by the cold heaviness of dread settling into the pit of his stomach that his father was right. It was not possible.

All this time he had known, he understood with sudden clarity. He had known but he had refused to believe, refused to think about it, refused to allow such a horrid reality to even enter the fringes of his consciousness. For twenty-six years he had been deluding himself. But he could fool himself no longer, and the finality of this recognition pressed down upon him like a suffocating cloud.

Laimea was gone.

_She has passed beyond your reach, Legolas._

He reeled, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, seeing his vision blur with tears. She was gone, forever gone. No matter how much he wished it, no matter how much he yearned for it, no matter how much he craved to hold her in his arms again… he could never see her again.

Not in this world, not in the next.

A sob hitched in his throat. He had been holding on to one hope: that in death he would see her again, and spend all the days unto the ending of the world at her side. That had been his only hope, and now that hope had been shattered. Now he had no hope. No escape. Nothing would bring her back to him now, and that was the most torturous thought of all.

He fell to his knees, no longer caring about the presence of his father or any others who might pass, and for only the second time in his centuries of life the Prince of Eryn Lasgalan, the Lord of the Ithilien Elves, wept openly in helpless sobs.


End file.
